


A Song of Myself

by iloveyoudie



Series: Delicious Burdens [1]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Bisexual Morse, Blood Loss, Canon-Typical Violence, Domestic, Episode Related, Episode Remix, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Blood, Modern AU, Modern Era, Modern Retelling, Plot With Porn, Self-Indulgent, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-10-16
Packaged: 2019-06-26 17:57:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 39,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15668313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iloveyoudie/pseuds/iloveyoudie
Summary: - A Self-Indulgent Modern AU -On a Friday night it would be a miracle to find anywhere that wasn’t crowded. A quick phone search told him that this pub would have the best beer selection, which meant it hadn’t changed much since his days up at college.**previously titled Delicious Burdens**





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sprung from me contemplating a modern AU for Endeavour, the realization that Morse is a beer snob, and a 'What If' he and Dr. Debryn met in a bar like some people do...

Morse entered the pub and moved straight to the bar without even a glance around him. On a Friday night it would be a miracle to find anywhere that wasn't crowded. A quick phone search told him that this place would have the best beer selection, which meant it hadn't changed much since his days up at college. 

Normally he wouldn't bother with a pub on a Friday night. Not in the fall with the students still in the beginning of their year, all that pent up energy finally let loose now that they were away from home, all enthusiasm and hormones before the term buckled down. Morse's transfer into the Thames Valley Police was fresh, so fresh he didn't even have a flat yet. Morse was living out of the police dormitories, a fact which was mildly humiliating for a man in CID, and he was making a point to spend as little time in the communal space as possible. Rookie policemen were much too chatty. 

The pub crowd was predictable. The old regulars hunched on every available stool while the professionals hobnobbed with nursing staff and residents from the nearby hospital. They all, to Morse, had the same look and the same clothes. All gym bodies and whitened teeth, trendy girls in tasteful earrings and the same three cuts of skirt and pants mixed and matched between them. Morse was a great lover of women but had no interest in the mundane, nor their cookie cutter, hard-bodied male counterparts. 

Every pub was stricken these days with standard breed hipsters. They were certainly more varied, more hairy and for most the most part more liberal. They drank better beer and wore more interesting clothes, but there were only so many ironic t-shirts he could stand and there was danger in every conversation that he'd be lured into the promise of intellectual stimulation only to have it blow up in his face with some sort of agenda or a low key pissing contest. 

All Morse wanted was a good pint. 

For him, having style meant nothing more than wearing whatever clothes corresponded with his mood - quiet and distant. That meant the evening's battered jeans and boots with a plain dark shirt were surely boring enough to have him glossed over by any who maybe would look twice at him. Tonight's mood was clearly 'I'm not even here'. When he found the last corner barstool, left vacant on account of the continual stream of people ordering drinks there, his slumped posture echoed the sentiment. A group of suited salarymen were crowded in beside him loudly ordering bottled light beers and Morse nearly gagged when he saw the first of them drink one. As soon as each meaty fist had a bottle in it, they moved off to find their own hunting grounds and Morse was at least left with some space to stretch his legs. 

When his pint was slid over he drank it down with grateful gusto. Several strong, long gulps and it was gone. 

"Here!" A small man stepped up to the bar beside him and called to the bartender with a knock on the wood and a wave. He must have been familiar because the bartender gave him a glance of recognition. Morse decided to capitalize by tapping the rim of his glass in view so he also wouldn't be missed. 

It earned him a look from the stranger who was giving the first impression of one of the many hipster subclasses - bowtie, vintage specs, braces over a short sleeve button up shirt, and rather enviable chestnut colored brogues. There was text tattooed on the inside of his left arm just below the elbow, and it rounded out the stereotype rather well but from the look of his face, the subtle downturn of his mouth and the baby-smooth shave, Morse somehow had a hard time picturing him saying he'd liked anything 'before it was popular.' He seemed, at first glance, at little disappointed and a little sad all at the same time, a combination that was all too familiar really. 

The man lifted up on his toes a moment before he braced a foot on the brass floor bar and leaned in when the bartender brought Morse's new pint, "A Posh and four Aviations, if you please." 

Morse snorted aloud as he held back a laugh. The drinks sounded like character tropes from an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel and he really couldn't help himself. 

"Is there a problem?" The short man turned back to him with a sharp stare over the top of his glasses and Morse, genuinely, didn't expect to be confronted. 

"No, of course not," Morse stoically restrained his own amusement, "It just seems a waste of money when they've perfectly good beer." 

He didn't even meet the other man's gaze and instead tilted his pint in example. As was Morse's way, his attempts at being funny or helpful only came off as a bit condescending, "As long as you avoid the lager." 

The bespectacled man didn't look amused at all. In fact, he looked rather bored with Morse's suggestion and fished for his wallet before setting some money on the bar. The bartender began to put down glasses, first something amber colored with a few berries on top, and then four lavender concoctions in martini glasses. 

Not getting an immediate retort back, Morse sipped his beer and gave the shorter man a more thorough, side-eyed appraisal. Solid build, greying but not old, and that tattoo that was too small and too hard to read in the dim pub lighting. The mystery made him dreadfully curious about it, which meant he found himself staring and hastily looked away. 

He certainly wasn't going to chat up anyone drinking something with a name like the Posh. 

"You know, there's a word for people like you," The man was tucking his wallet back into his pants as the last purple glass was set down. It seemed that he had not checked out of the conversation at all, only more carefully chosen his timing. 

"What's that then?" Morse's lips curved with bemused interest. 

"Beer snob," The man said plainly with an unflappable rise of eyebrows. 

"There's a word for people like you too, I imagine," _a bit more satisfying on the tongue as well_ , Morse thought. His mouth opened to share one of many carefully selected barbs when he was interrupted. 

Women, gorgeous women, suddenly appeared around the smaller man and his displeased mouth shifted into a quick and pleasant smile. 

"Max!" A beautiful dark skinned girl with natural curls and big earrings slid in beside him, "We can get our own drinks you know." 

"Next round's yours then, Monica," Max winked at her effortlessly and she grinned. 

Morse was momentarily entranced by her mouth, the curve of her lips and her wide white smile, but as her eyes slid to him, perhaps curious about who her friend was talking to, her vibrance stiffened politely. 

"Cheers," She said in a polite voice that surely signalled she had no interest. She picked up two of the purple drinks, a blonde grabbed the other two and Max, as was his name, grabbed what must have been the Posh. 

He gave Morse a self-satisfied glance and if the girls' arrival hadn't been planned it had surely had worked out in his favor. 

"Cheers," said Max rather smugly and the trio was gone before Morse could even close his mouth. 

He was left with the rare and distinct impression that he'd been bested in some way. 

Morse pulled a hand through his messy curls and turned his attention back to his original purpose here - drinking. He pulled out his phone and disappeared into it and by the time he'd tried two more of the beers on tap he'd already read the news, battled with the desire to put on his headphones, and settled on continuing his crossword. When the arse end of the third pint went down he was feeling warm and loose. The idea of talking to people wasn't so daunting anymore. 

Morse turned and pressed his back to the wall as he scanned the crowd. The faces had changed but for the most part the same bustling groups remained. The business men had a table packed with empty beer bottles, a lot of the regulars had disappeared, and Max and his gorgeous girls sat packed into a corner entertaining themselves for the most part. He scrutinized them from a distance, detective instincts trying to read their dynamic, but he found his eyes drawn to Max and also the fact he was being watched back. His stare was unreadable but even when Morse looked away he was sure he could still feel it on him. He instead glanced over the bar, looking but not seeing, and then, as a bit of a test, he glanced back again. Max was talking to one of the girls, leaning in to her ear with a laugh, and then as he turned to sip his drink his eyes cut up and met Morse's once more. 

Monica, the stunning one, rose to fetch her round and Morse couldn't help but watch her walk. She didn't so much as come near his corner of the bar and he reminded himself that he hadn't come out for a hook up, just a drink. Unfortunately the single drink had already turned into a triple and his options were feeling a lot more open. 

Morse pulled out his phone again while stewing over the idea of one more pint before he finally packed it in. He'd grab takeaway on the way and spend the rest of his night listening to music until he passed out in his clothes. A typical Friday. He had to look at flats tomorrow anyway. 

One more pint. 

On a whim Morse googled those frou-frou drinks while the bartender was at the other end of the room. He discovered that a Posh was actually just a fancy gin and tonic and the Aviation's origin actually dated back to 1916. He was much too pleased with himself to find his assumptions on time period were actually correct, and his ego was officially soothed. 

"Let me guess," a voice cut through Morse's reverie and his head shot up from his phone with a jolt. He looked like a deer in the headlights and found it was Max there looking as unreadable as he'd been all night, "Oxford man?" 

Morse's eyes darted back to the corner table and it seemed all the girls had dispersed, "Yes." 

It wasn't technically a lie, but Morse was going with what was safe. People didn't often react well to being told you were a police officer and it was loaded with individual guilts and biases. The truth didn't much matter to a stranger in a bar anyway, "Lonsdale. Classics." 

Max nodded, his hands sliding into his pockets and bobbing lightly on his toes, " _Literae Humaniores,_ how very traditional of you. Not entirely a fool then. _"_

Having the word fool used grated on Morse's fragile sense of self worth. He was too used to his intelligence being targeted and setting him apart. He had only spoken to this little man once and he could already feel him pushing his buttons, worse that he could tell from the expression on his face that the he was also enjoying it. 

_Prick._

"Not entirely," His lips curled in mild derision and his eyes rolled away as he took a drink of his beer. A man in glasses who had a passable knowledge of latin meant nothing in Oxford but Morse was not one to let a challenge to his intellect pass, "And what're you then?" 

With that bowtie he'd say it was something decadent and useless. Something that made good Instagram photos. Something that made him feel superior with no true legs to stand on. Bookstore owner. Podcaster. Sartorialist. Food blogger, maybe? 

Max had to lean in and speak up as the pub noise got louder, " _I'm a doctor._ " 

_Christ._

It was as perfect a shut down to his own inner monologue as there could be. Everything from his smug curl of lips to the perfectly timed lean to deliver the final blow were absolutely on point. Morse's righteousness was so thoroughly destroyed that he actually found himself impressed… and charmed. 

"Of course you are," Morse shook his head with a laugh of defeat. There was no denying credit where it was due and he'd been put in his place. He was not the cleverest man in the room tonight. Not by a longshot. That was a rarity in itself, "Well then _Doctor_ , can I buy you a drink?" 

"It's Max. And yes, I think you better," Max set a foot against the bar and reached out to tap Morse's glass twice with a finger, "I'll have whatever you're having." 

The caveat was appreciated. Well played, Max. 

Morse motioned to the bartender, indicating 2 more pints, before he offered his hand to Max for a shake, "I'm Morse." 

"What was that?" Max lifted on his toes, face scrunching lightly as he attempted to hear above the crowd. 

"MORSE," He leaned, "You know, like the code." 

Max must have said 'Ah' but it was lost in the din. He leaned to speak up again with a smile, "In the feminine - _mors, mortis, mortem_ -" 

"Of course we couldn't forget those.." Morse chuckled. He was an odd man, but interesting and there was something in the way Max spoke that struck a chord in him. This city was rife with overeducated prats and while Max was certainly a prat, he wasn't projecting the usual air of superiority. He carried himself in a way that felt familiar, even among his group of friends, a way that suggested distance. Morse was very familiar with it. 

The beers were slid before them and this time the 'Cheers' was much more genial. Max took a healthy sip of his and nodded approval, "Not bad-" it was getting loud again and he had to speak up, "-but I prefer the stout!" 

The pub seemed to get louder and more crowded by the second and Morse and Max ended up having to lean rather close to even conduct a conversation. By the time their pints were finishing, the challenge of their initial introduction had faded into something rather friendly and Max had revealed himself fairly well versed in the local ales. Morse was now past his own defensive bluster and it turned out that the doctor was rather good company. Morse wasn't quite drunk but he'd certainly reached the peak of his own personal charms. 

He was getting ideas. Ideas about Max and that tattoo on his arm that he wanted to investigate. He had ideas about the way Max's ears had turned pink at the tips and if that blush extended further. He found that Max exuded an air of being hard to please, yet Morse had already managed to pull a few smiles from him and now he'd like to see more of them. The idea that he hadn't come out to chat someone up was long gone, as if it had never even existed. All it would take now was a single question to determine how he spent the rest of his night. He had a belly full of ale, a questionable amount of common sense, and idle hands. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. 

Max was interesting and Morse was interested. 

He stepped close and rested a hand on Max's hip. His nerves fluttered as he leaned in to whisper to him, lips brushing an ear, "Do you want to get out of here?" 

Max didn't say anything at first but Morse could've sworn he felt his face flush while leaning so close. A let down would not have been devastating, and Morse was prepared for it, but something about Max made him think that walking away without trying would have been a great mistake. 

The doctor finally nodded and pressed a hand to Morse's chest. He could feel the warmth of his palm through his shirt as lips brushed Morse's ear with an offer, "My place?" 

He flashed the doctor a delighted smile, even more delighted when he realized that that the pink on those ears now faintly touched Max's cheeks. 

They weaved through the crowd and out onto the street, Morse following behind with a hand on Max's back until there was enough space for them to walk side by side. The doctor produced car keys from a ring on his hip and beeped the alarm on a rather new looking mid sized Range Rover. Morse prefered cars to SUVs but there was something fascinating in the pairing of the solid little doctor and his large, mud splattered vehicle. 

"Go offroading much?" It hadn't rained enough in the city to leave that sort of mess. 

"I like to fish," Max replied with a vague sort of look before he settled into the driver's seat and unlocked the doors for his companion. 

It didn't dawn on Morse to see if Max was sober enough to drive until they were already on the road. It would be awkward to have to bust him for drunk driving while still in the car, especially since he hadn't mentioned that he was a police officer and he was probably more intoxicated himself. 

"Why did you finger me as an academic?" Morse asked curiously after some minutes of silence. He couldn't tell what Max was thinking but the doctor's eyes were definitely glued to the road and not deviating. He seemed to be concentrating hard but Morse couldn't tell if it was the situation they were in or the act of driving itself. 

"Besides that we are in Oxford?" Max's brows rose but he didn't look away from the road, "You look like one. Which is to say that you need a good home cooked meal and to get more sleep. You spent most of the evening in your own head. Besides, an Oxford man loves to admit that he's one." 

Yes, Morse had fallen into that trap easily. He huffed, more at himself than anything. Max was certainly straight forward and didn't care for padding his opinions. It wasn't much different than himself, he just wasn't used to being on the receiving end, "Has anyone ever told you that you're quite the casanova?" 

Max pursed his lips smugly and his brows rose in the mirror but he didn't say another word for the rest of the drive. Several minutes later they pulled up in front of what must have been his house. The silence was making Morse a bit paranoid that the doctor had changed his mind. Nothing felt particularly awkward but it was also never outside the realm of possibilities that he'd mucked it up for himself somehow. 

"This is it," Max turned off the engine and finally cast his eyes to his passenger, then the house, and then seemed to stall with indecision. Morse wondered maybe if his sarcasm about Max's methods wasn't so far from the truth. He either hadn't done this before or this was a very rare occasion. 

Morse leaned over the console and reached for the other man's cheek. As soon as he brushed skin the doctor's eyes fluttered back to him in rapt attention. Morse sensed there was a choice being made during that moment. Max's eyes darted over his face, his brows knit in thought, and then finally he leaned in to meet him. The kiss they shared was tentative at first, sweet even, until they each pressed for more with parted lips and tasting tongues and it swept quickly into something more promising. Morse broke away with a breathy inhale as the car interior began to dig into his side from the awkward angle. 

"Right," Was all Max said, pink faced again, before he finally slid out of the car and palmed his keys. 

Morse shadowed him dutifully and stuck close as he let them in. He couldn't help reinforcing his presence, enjoying the closeness with someone while he was allowed it, and Morse smoothed a hand over the other man's back while he waited and ended with it curled around a belt loop at Max's hip. 

The first thing that struck Morse about the house was how tidy it was. It didn't look unlived in or like some design catalog, far from it. There were all the usual signs of life - worn door frames and floors, piles of mail and reading material, discarded earbuds hanging out of the seam of a seat cushion and the usual scattered electronic accessories that went along with any normal home - but Max clearly kept a tight ship. Morse was almost ashamed to think about what abuse his bad habits would wreak on such a nice place in a short period of time. 

There was modern sensibility in the decor, classic dark woods paired with bare brick walls and naked pipes that were offset by richly colored area rugs and sofas. The living room was lined with shelves that framed a large television and sported what looked like medical miscellany of various eras, knick knacks, family photos, framed degrees, the more typical coffee table books and blurays. It was busy but well used and spoke of someone who had no shame in their eclectic tastes. There was a dining area beyond that was only set apart by a small island lined by stools. 

Max seemed more relaxed in his own domain and after dropping his keys to a side table he turned to face Morse with a telling extension of his fingers that said he was unsure what exactly he wanted to do with them. Morse didn't leave him much room to doubt. The doctor looked like he was going to say something, offer some very polite hospitality, but he was instead pulled into a rather enthusiastic kiss. This time Max's arms curled up and around Morse's neck and his fingers buried into the auburn curls as if he'd been waiting to all night. 

The last pint's taste still lingered on his lips and Morse savored it until the kiss deepened and he found a citrusy sweetness on his tongue, a tang that he found addictive and he thought momentarily that he should amend his opinion of the Posh. He gripped and scratched lightly across Max's lower back as they opened to one another, hands slipping lower until he grasped his arse and pulled them flush. That seemed to stir something in the doctor and he only allowed it a moment, a blissful second of heat between them, before he broke the kiss with a nip and tug of lip that sent spikes of pleasure straight to Morse's groin. 

With Max's arms around his neck Morse finally took the opportunity to indulge his interest in the elusive tattoo that had plagued him all night. He slid his hands up Max's sides to his shoulders and then down his arms. He brought his lips to the man's wrist in a gentle kiss, then brushed them up his forearm before finally turning the arm to get a look at the tattoo there in the crook of his elbow. What he found, done in an antique typewriter print, sent a satisfying shiver down his spine. It was an uncanny pleasure that he couldn't explain. He pressed his lips to the tattoo and then set his eyes on Max with a renewed heat. 

_"And one was fond of me.."_ Morse murmured against the sensitive skin of his Max's inner arm. 

Max shuddered unexpectedly and his voice turned breathy as he finished the quotation with the accompanying line that rested under Morse's lips, _"And all are slain."_

Morse had never expected going out for a solo pint on a Friday night would lead to Housman in the arms of a doctor. This was singular, he knew it, and something worth savoring. His mouth ghosted over a pulsepoint and the hammering of the heartbeat against his lips stirred a bit more than his interest. 

Max seemed struck and ordered, "Upstairs." 

"Yes," Morse agreed with a small smile. When he released that arm he stole another kiss, a small delighted one. The poetry had crossed some unknown divide and what had seemed like it would have been a fun, mutually satisfying evening, took on a whole new layer of interest, "Lead the way." 

Morse probably would have taken the stairs two at a time if not for Max's steady pace in front of him. He could see him loosening his bow tie as he walked and the doctor struck him as a man who would not be hurried if he didn't want to be. He had a peculiar mix of will, intelligence, gruff expectation and a gentle diffidence that tied the rest together. 

He was finding it dangerously appealing. 

"Do you have any other tattoos?" 

Max actually paused, delaying their ascent a moment longer, as he cast coy eyes back down to Morse, "You'll have to find out for yourself." 

Yes. He could do that. 

At the top of the stairs Max gestured to a door as he slid the bowtie off of his neck, "Loo's there if you need it.." 

As much as Morse didn't want to derail, mention of the toilet reminded his body how much he'd actually drank, "I'll just be a minute." 

He took a moment to splash water soberingly onto his face and he smoothed his hands through his mussed hair after his business was done. He wasn't nervous but it had admittedly been a while and he was strangely concerned about impressing the other man. 

When he finally joined him in the bedroom he found Max sitting on the bed with his hands on his knees. He was still as clothed as he'd been in the hall aside from bare feet and his shirt unbuttoned enough to give a glimpse of collarbone and a dusting of chest hair. Max's cheeky glances on the stairs seemed to have disappeared and instead he was sporting a rather concerning furrow of the brow. 

"If you've changed your mind.." Morse murmured, thumbing towards the door, but the doctor relaxed upon seeing him and his expression smoothed out. 

"No," Max stood up and Morse met him halfway. The doctor pressed a hand to his chest, "I just don't usually do this." 

"Lucky me," Morse smiled and meant it. His hand curled around Max's jaw as he guided him once more into a kiss. He was glad to find the doctor just as eager as he'd been before and they both backed towards the bed until they bumped it. Max surprised him with a smooth move, gripping his shirt and with no effort turning them both around to press into the mattress. Max was on top of him in moments, straddling his hips and plucking the buttons on his shirt open much too deftly until he could get his hands spread across Morse's lean chest. He stopped then, stopped and stared, and Morse found himself flushing under the look in the doctor's eyes. He was being very openly _admired_. 

Just like that, that one hot glance for one second too long, and there was suddenly too much clothing between them. Both men scrambled and shifted until their shirts fell forgotten to the bedroom floor. Morse was delighted to find the answer to his previous question about tattoos in the Vitruvian Man that bared itself on Max's right pectoral. It was nice work, not that he expected less, and he traced it with his fingers before leaning in to bite. Max shivered under his lips and Morse took it as encouragement. He continued to nip his way across Max's collarbone, each press of teeth pulling a small sound from the doctor, before he found a particularly sensitive spot at the juncture of his shoulder that was given enough attention to mark. It wasn't conscious, nothing so immature, and lay solely in the satisfaction of the sounds it evoked and the feel of Max's hands gripping him tighter as he got rougher with his mouth. 

There was no denying their mutual arousal in this position and Max's hips pinning down his own made Morse shift impatiently for more contact. He gripped Max's arse again and as much as he could, ground up against him. The friction between their constrained lengths pulled needy sounds from each in unison. 

"Wait-" Max breathed and pressed his palm to Morse's chest to still him. His eyes were dark against red splashed cheeks and Morse was, in this exact moment, entirely taken with him. His hips shifted in a subtle coax. 

"I said- _ah-_ " Max's expression furrowed seriously and his tone sharpened, "I said wait a moment. I don't-" He pulled away to sit back on his heels and Morse groaned at the loss. His bowed body settled back into the mattress with resignation. 

"Are you clean?" Max leaned on his own knees and by the look on his face he was serious. His words were much more clinical than Morse would have liked at this particular moment, "When were you last tested for an STI?" 

Morse actually gaped in disbelief, "Really?" 

"Yes really," Max insisted brusquely. 

"No wonder you don't do this often," He muttered and immediately could feel Max tense in irritation. Common sense told him this was the smart thing but his body was impatient. Morse's head rolled in the duvet hopelessly and he rubbed a hand over his face, "People don't just stop and ask that, you know. Beforehand maybe.." 

"People also are hotbeds of disease and infection. And liars." And Morse hadn't wasted time. There hadn't been a 'beforehand'. 

"I'm not a liar," Morse sat up quickly on his elbows with a snap defense. He'd forgotten for a moment that he was bedding a _doctor_ , "I'm clean, alright? But you're going to have to take my word for it, unless you expect me to have a letter in my wallet." 

Morse didn't pay mind to most aspects of his health but work did require the occasional physical. He didn't see the sense submitting himself to all those examinations without maximizing his time at the doctor's office. 

"Now, was that so hard?" Max snorted. 

"Can we cut down on the talking now, please?" Morse leaned up on one elbow to press a shushing finger to Max's lips and give him a look. 

That, strangely enough, seemed to amuse the doctor and he took Morse's shushing finger between his lips to scrape his teeth along the pad. Morse bit his lip as his mild annoyance blazed very suddenly into a different kind of heat. The finger was sucked between lips and then released so Max could push the man back down and pin that hand over his head. 

"You're a very strange man," Morse laughed with huffed breaths as he tested his pinned wrist against Max's grip. His free one scratched down Max's chest and down over the round of his belly which he was discovering that he liked quite a bit. This hand was also caught and pressed above his head with the first. 

"I'll take that as a compliment," Max said low, dipping his head to Morse's freckled neck with some measure of delight as it was bared to him, "Since you're pinned to my bed." 

Morse's body stretched and arched of its own accord and he found the desire to touch had become frustratingly strong once the option had been taken away, "Please do." 

Max made a satisfied sort of sound that reverberated through his chest and through every needy inch of Morse. The pinned wrists were only released when he'd had his fill of Morse's neck and collar and his hands took up more nefarious purposes. Max begun an expert exploration of Morse's form, running his fingers over every curve of muscle and knob of bone. He tracked over ribs until they jumped with soft laughs and he scratched over thin hips until Morse was lifting his body once more with impatience. As Max catalogued every anatomical detail he pressed slow steady kisses down the center of Morse's body, tracing freckles with his tongue and savoring every small breathy noise the man under him made. He nipped at the bottom curve of ribcage and sucked a mark into the soft flesh at his waistband. Morse's hands desperately dropped to the other man's hair, which was only just long enough to grab, as he gasped from the stinging mix of pain and pleasure that shot straight to his cock when he felt his skin sucked and worried and marked. Max huffed a laugh against his waistband that was exceptionally frustrating and for all Morse wanted more - more friction - more skin - more satisfaction - the doctor seemed happy to take his time. 

This was a different man than the one who'd stalled anxiously in the car, who'd paused to measure his options before he would even kiss him. There was nothing unsure in him now and given even the smallest measure of power he had seized it. Morse had never considered himself to be particularly submissive but there was something so sure about Max that he couldn't help giving in. 

The doctor finally worked his hand against front of Morse's snug jeans, palming his straining arousal through the denim and Morse let out a stuttered sound as he pressed his hips up into heel of the Max's hand. There was an amused 'tsk' from the doctor and even though it earned a glare from Morse, he did his best to restrain himself. He was rewarded with a hungry kiss and before he knew it, he found himself naked. 

Max was remarkably efficient at stripping clothes from a body. 

Cool air met flushed and naked flesh and Morse shifted further up on the mattress as goosepimples of anticipation prickled sensitively along his skin. He waited for Max to join him, to strip himself or crawl over, but instead the doctor was back in that familiar kneel and watching Morse once again. His eyes were dark, his lips kiss-reddened and as he devoured Morse with his eyes he looked like he was holding himself on a fine line of restraint. 

Morse wasn't overly modest in the bedroom but he felt very exposed under those eyes. He could almost feel them on his skin, each weighty glance touched him like the hot fingers that had explored his body only moments before. It was a new sort of intimacy for him. No one had ever stopped to savor him in this way. Never had he felt so desired without even being touched. A shyness crept in that he didn't expect and it made Morse want to squirm. It equally made him smile and as he wasn't exactly sure why so he hid his face against a pillow and offered the doctor a languid stretch for his viewing pleasure. 

" _Max_ ," Morse wanted to touch him. He wanted Max's body to cover him, he wanted skin on skin, and as much as he appreciated the doctor's current dishevelled look - stripped to the waist with his braces hanging and his arousal evident - Morse wanted him as naked and exposed as he was. He'd never been treated like a thing of beauty before and even flustered and flushed from head to toe, he determined to indulge the doctor just a moment longer. To attempt to break this delicate balance of control could ruin it. 

Max finally moved. His fingers danced along Morse's feet, caressed his slender ankles, and finally smoothed up his pale calves until he could part his legs and move between them. Max's head dipped to trail kisses up the inner thigh and only when he could feel the young man trembling with desperate anticipation did he stop. A sound rumbled from deep in his chest and Max sighed worshipfully above the delicate curve of Morse's leaking cock, " _You are the loveliest thing I've ever touched_." 

The praise made Morse's flush more intense and something equally proud and self conscious flared in his chest. His nerves lit like an affection starved youth and Max saved him the effort of having to formulate a response when his cock was suddenly enveloped in slick, wet heat. The sudden rush of pleasure stole the breath from his lungs and his hips twitched with need and a silent beg for more. Max's free arm curled around his thigh and locked Morse in place, a firm reminder of who was in control, and dark eyes cut up to his face just as he began to withdraw, pulling his lips along the shaft with agonizing suction that punctuated it's release with a slow, wet pop. 

Morse now knew he'd been an idiot to ever think this could be a shy man. He'd been a fool for entertaining a second of thought that he was inexperienced. Every new touch told him that this man was in fact a mastermind. A genius. Perhaps even an artist. He tuned Morse so finely, plucked and coaxed him to the razors edge of pleasure so skillfully, that now all he needed to do was revel in the performance. 

A swirl of tongue had Morse gasping aloud. 

Scratch all of that, Max was a torturer. 

Morse couldn't watch him, eye contact was too much, and with alternating strokes of a rough hand and smooth mouth he was soon trembling uncontrollably and covered with a fine sheen of moisture. The sight of Max looking at him, mouth around his prick and eyes dark and devouring, was burned into the back of his eyelids and as his breathing came hot and heavy, Morse tried desperately to match the pace being set as he hurtled to his own end. Max read the cues well and by the time he pulled back again, with another filthy wet sound and a slow swipe of tongue over the glistening tip, Morse had locked a quivering leg over his shoulder and was biting his lip to keep from crying out and thrusting wildly. 

Max very abruptly released him and slipped away again and Morse let out a disappointed sound as he gasped for grounding breaths. Air against his overstimulated body made him shiver and and he tried to calm his pulse and fight the desire to just take himself in hand for instant gratification. He wondered if Max would like that, if he'd watch him work himself to a frenzy or if maybe he should roll over and rut himself raw into the mattress. Would the doctor devour him with his eyes all over again or cave to instinct and take him like that, arse in the air like a desperate animal? 

His imaginings were interrupted by the sound of a drawer opening and closing and fabric hitting the floor and Morse finally searched Max out with a lazy gaze. He shifted himself back against the pillows for comfort and finally calmed his heart rate to reasonable level. He wanted to be able to last, to fully enjoy what the other was giving him. With Max finally naked, Morse drank him in. He wasn't sure he could do justice to the looks he'd received in turn, but Max flushed across the chest and shoulders in response. 

Morse's insides tumbled at the flash of unexpected bashfulness and he broke into a grin as he reached for him. He tugged the doctor into the bedding and kissed him hard. He could taste his own musk on Max's lips and whatever arousal had edged away came back in full force. He tried to roll the shorter man onto his back but found that Max had other plans. Morse found himself pinned and straddled once more, a preference it seemed, but lost any complaint when he felt his aching prick meet Max's own in a slow grind. 

"Max, _please_ ," His body's need was beginning to war with his patience and the breathy plea came with a genuine longing. 

"You're impatient, Morse," Max kissed him again, this time to silence him, "You need to work on your self control." 

Morse growled something but it was unintelligible as Max's mouth ventured down his neck again. 

"Don't worry. You'll have me," Max promised into the other man's lovely skin, "my way." 

The doctor moved away again and though Morse grumbled, Max wasn't idle. He'd slicked his hand from a small bottle and gave his own ruddy cock a few rough pulls. Morse couldn't take his eyes from him, wanting very badly to touch him himself, taste him, wrench sounds from him, but Max had said 'his way' and he hadn't yet disappointed. 

When Max finally leaned in to kiss him again he took them both in hand with a sure grip. Morse moaned into his mouth as their lengths were worked root to tip and the slightest shift of their hips sent hot charges igniting through his veins. He arched into it, trying to push for more and faster but he was still being held at bay by Max's careful pace. He was so absorbed in it, in the feel of heat and movement, of slick skin and careful pressure, that he entirely missed what else Max was doing until he heard the man let slip a deep sigh against his lips and the hand around both of them faltered. 

Their kiss broke when Morse realized that while Max had been stroking, working them slowly to the edge, that he was also reaching behind himself and.. 

_Oh._

Morse swallowed thickly and let out a groan. Max was preparing himself, stretching his own body open, getting himself ready for.. 

_Oh._

The arch of his back and the tremor in his thighs was enough for Morse to visualize what was happening, what he was doing with his fingers, what every little shudder meant. 

Morse caught Max in a greedy kiss, devouring his sounds and taking over for the hand that had faltered. Suddenly all that careful pacing seemed to have been forgotten. Max's restraint broke and he brushed Morse's hand away, snatched up a condom he'd tossed down with the lubricant and swiftly rolled it down over Morse's length. 

"I think," Morse breathed hard and he rocked his hips up into the doctor's attentions, stretching himself out in a way he was sure caught the man's hungry gaze, "I like your way." 

"Do shut up Morse," Max managed a chuckle that sounded very nearly like a growl. 

When Max moved again, Morse could feel his cock slide hotly against the man's prepared body. He was gripped and lined up, and then came the blessed pinch as tightness enveloped him. Max made no sound as he was slowly filled, and only when fully seated did he let out a gasp of held breath and satisfaction. 

Morse had rather effectively been shut up. He felt amazing. 

When they began to move the slow pace and gradual build of the evening had been absolutely abandoned. Max was a greedy thing, a demanding partner, and Morse was completely caught up in him. Each rise and fall was met hungrily and each roll of hips was matched. Morse couldn't help but touch him, scratch up Max's thighs and grip them. The world began to disappear around them and when Max's hands braced and gripped the skin over Morse's heart, when his entire frame began to shiver, he knew the other man was close. 

He couldn't be sure how long he lasted. The world had pinpointed to the two of them, to the places their bodies met, to the tight and the slick and heat. Movement. Shifting. Sparking. Breathing. Morse began to jerk Max's cock between their bodies, stroking to the frantic pace as best he could and Max was trembling with each deep thrust now. He dropped chest to chest but continued to ride him, and his panting mouth slid to murmur demanding encouragement against Morse's ear. It was dirty and decadent and shot something molten straight to his bollocks. His climax hit hard and Morse was overwhelmed. The world went white, his mind blanked, and his entire body was a raw nerve flayed in the most pleasurable of ways. Morse clung hard to Max and felt the other man join him, pulsing into his hand and spilling between their bodies only moments after. 

Morse's awareness didn't return immediately but in bits and pieces. First there was the weight of Max on top of him, the matched pounding of their heart beats, the heaving of their chests and the momentary unity of it. He wrapped his arms around the other man and clung to him, to this moment of blissful togetherness, and closed his eyes. It was more than nice and, as such, was too good to last. The chill hit next, the stick of sweat and spunk, and the tang of sex and satisfaction. His body reawakened little by little and with the lovely loose exhaustion came the sudden oversensitized shock when Max slid off of him. Morse hissed from the flash of pleasure driven pain and clung tight as it passed. He was not eager to lose the insulating weight of the other man any time soon. 

The doctor pressed a kiss to his neck, a tired and grateful sort of kiss, and let out a small soft bark of laughter when he peeled himself away and Morse let out a rather undignified noise of disappointment. Max rolled onto his back and closed his eyes but Morse's hand reached out, desperate for even the smallest bit of contact, and tangled their fingers together. The silence was intimate and Morse, in all his emotional selfishness, found some meaning in it. 

_Why did he do this to himself?_

His head swam when he finally sat up and Morse pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes while murmuring something about cleaning up. His legs felt a bit like jelly before he got a hold of them and when he finally stood in front of the sink with a wet flannel he gave himself a hard look: he needed to get himself together. 

Max hadn't seemed to have moved when he returned but when he reached to clean the other man off he found himself intercepted. The doctor finally stretched and sat upright but Morse was beginning to find the silence unnerving. He found himself suddenly very concerned about if Max had enjoyed himself. Did he like it? Did he like _him_? It was stupid and foolish and fleeting and as soon as the thought came it had fled and left an anxious chill in its wake. 

"Morse." 

He came out of his head with a blink and Max was there, cleaned up, with his glasses back on even if they were both still naked as jaybirds. 

"I'm not going to toss you out," The doctor said tentatively, "if that's what you're worried about." 

"Oh," Morse blinked. He hadn't thought about it at all but that surely would have been a very hollow ending to his evening. "Right. Cheers." 

Max frowned and that furrow returned to his brow as if he were running over in his head what to do next. How quickly he had been the master of the encounter, dominating and no-nonsense, clear and controlled and deliciously sure. 

Now, in light of the softer things, he seemed rather out of step. 

Morse realized that it was his turn to guide again, to coax the doctor back into surety like he had in the car. He leaned and brushed Max's cheek to draw him into a kiss. It felt chaste in comparison to what they'd just done but painfully sweet and it ached lightly when he realized that tomorrow the expectation would be to simply go their separate ways and accept it as a good time, a single night, and nothing more. 

They were strangers and they knew what this had been from the beginning. 

Morse broke the kiss with a smile and his foolish heart fluttered when he received one in return. This time it was him who pushed Max back down to the mattress and with a amenable grunt he complied, only pausing to pull his glasses off again and cut the bedside light. 

In the dark Morse indulged and sprawled across the doctor under the sheets. He tossed a leg over his waist and set his head against his chest. He could hear the steady reassuring thud of Max's heartbeat under his ear and it was almost enough to lull him to sleep as heaviness finally settled into his limbs. Morse yawned into Max's chest and heard a yawn echo in return moments later. He could feel the doctor's fingers tracing his spine, walking across his vertebrate one by one, over and over. It was warmly affectionate and rather relaxing. 

"The tattoos-" Morse said softly in the dark. 

"Hm?" 

"The Vitruvian Man. Understandable, considering," He was a doctor. The ideal of the body, the perfect proportion, the human physical form and its relation to universe. 

"That was medical school. Everyone got something. I know for a fact there's a pediatrician 'round Sussex with a secret slag-tag of Tweety Bird." 

Morse laughed, he couldn't help himself, and felt Max chuckling under his ear in unison. 

"The Housman though," Morse mused. 

The chuckling stopped. 

" _And all are slain,"_ Morse murmured, tracing a finger through the hair on Max's chest. 

There was no answer. 

_And one was fond of me.._

Morse wondered if Max also knew the bite of love and loss as he did. 

"Medical school was an exciting time," Max said again with an empty explanation and when Morse didn't ask for clarification, the doctor pressed a kiss into the man's hair. 

"Though," Max finally said with a dry humor, "my patients aren't exactly alive either." 

The wry tone suddenly lightened the mood and even if talking about corpses felt a little macabre for the afterglow, Morse still smirked and pressed his lips to the skin by his mouth, "That would be a very literal interpretation." 

They didn't say anything else. No pleasantries. No awkward conversation about the morning. He wasn't sure he could do it. Morse had a dozen questions if he had one, and now a good amount of reluctance for tomorrow to come. There was a reason he rarely did this sort of thing and it was as simple as a lack of sense. 

He always got too attached. 

He shifted to tuck himself into Max's side and the doctor found his hand in the dark and curled his fingers around Morse's wrist. He held him right at the pulsepoint and Morse realized that while he would fall asleep with his head over Max's steady thrumming heartbeat, the doctor preferred to do it with Morse's own heart fluttering, very literally, in his hand. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've clearly tweaked the events of the 'Pilot' and the conditions of Morse's transfer for my own purposes, as well as Thames Valley existing already.. this is after all Modern Era! Pardon my re-purposing episode lines for my own entertainment!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we see the morning after, our first corpse, and Morse meets the home office pathologist.

Morse awoke with a languid stretch across the large bed. He hadn't been able to appreciate the size and comfort the night before but it was the best night's sleep he'd had since his return to Oxford. There was only the mildest disappointment that Max wasn't there, but a cuddly lie-in was likely out of his reach given the circumstances. The bedroom curtains were drawn to allow in only slashes of light through the dim and Morse could make out that his clothes had been folded on a nearby chair and a fresh towel was set out for him. The unspoken offer of a shower was not a kindness he had been expecting.

Morse rolled over onto his face to enjoy the bed a moment longer and secretly luxuriate in the smell of the other man on his pillow. Laboriously he hauled himself upright and assessed his surroundings. The bedroom was simple, clean and rather sparsely decorated. A peek out the window determined that they faced east and Morse wondered briefly if Max ever woke up with the sunrise. The morning light was also entirely too bright and Morse quickly recoiled from the view to grab his phone and throw himself indulgently back into the bedding.

He could hear something like music or talking coming from the downstairs but it was low enough that it barely registered. It told him that Max was up and moving and it was in his best interests to move it along as well, but being left to his own devices was an irresistible temptation. He _really_ wanted to look around. Just a glance. He wouldn't even touch anything. He wouldn't even open a drawer. There was no harm in looking, right?

The bed was flanked rather typically by bedside tables and one was clearly the favored side by the phone charger, iPad and empty glasses case on top. There was a generous sized closet set in one wall and the open sliding doors revealed clean lines of suits and blazers, neatly arranged dress shoes, and a half open cloth storage box containing exclusively bow ties. They ranged from the subdued to the vibrant and one particularly vivid rainbow tie had him stifling a smile. Several pairs of vintage spectacles of varying yet similar designs sat on an unremarkable dresser amidst the usual men's grooming accouterments. There weren't any photos of note or anything beyond what would be needed for sleeping and dressing. There wasn't even a television, which meant the bedroom was likely used for necessity only.

The ever present murmur of the sound downstairs began to make Morse feel guilty for his ineffectual snooping. Max had been gracious enough to let him stay, let him sleep, and offer a shower and here he was casing the man's room like a petty criminal. A wave of disappointment swept through him and he had to take a moment and put things back into perspective. Morse took himself to the shower for a quick rinse and ignored the other open and tantalizing doors on the second floor. He looked over his body in the mirror, at the bites and bruises scattered haphazardly down his pale chest, and found himself smiling from a pleasant tingle of memory when he tested his fingers against a vivid purple mark by his navel.

Morse put on his clothes from the night before, which he was disappointed to find still smelled a bit like the pub, and finally embarked down the stairs with damp hair and a yawn. He was rather anxious to see the doctor. There was a lingering fear of the unknown, how he'd act or how he'd look, but hiding upstairs wouldn't help. They'd gone and done something both of them, supposedly, rarely did and lacked the convenience of calling it a drunken mistake. It had been spectacular and not a mistake at all, but here in the glaring light of a new day, he wasn't sure if Max felt the same. Morse hadn't even been entirely forthcoming about himself and that wasn't exactly a healthy jumping off point for any sort of acquaintance.

The sound of talking grew louder as Morse was tantalized down the stairs by the smell of fresh coffee in the air. He pulled his eyes along the wall as he went and paused when he passed a centered photograph of an older man of heavy build with period appropriate sideburns, thick glasses and sporting a bow tie. He stared over his glasses with a familiar expression of amused disappointment and sported that same downturn of mouth that Max did. Morse aged the photo to be a father or grandfather and by the medical bag in the man's hand, this profession may have been a family legacy.

As he reached the bottom of the stairs, Morse realized the talking was coming from one of those ridiculous speakers that everyone seemed to own but him. What he was hearing sounded like Americans, a man and a woman, and - surprise surprise - it was medical in nature.

_'Patent medicines are **like** medicine, but they're full of garbage and they don't work.'_

"Alexa, stop."

Max was sitting at the island of his kitchen hunched in front of a laptop with a mug of coffee. He was a far cry from the styled pub-goer of the night before. His simple lounge wear and bare feet were normalizing and light wire framed glasses, in lieu of trendier eyewear, made him look younger and much less severe at first glance. If Morse hadn't been party to it, he would not have imagined that the Max in front of him now was the same one who'd taken him apart with carnal precision the night before. Unfortunately this relaxed side of him did nothing to abate Morse's interest and his insides still tumbled as soon as he saw the man. It had only been hours since poetry and hands and the addictive taste of him on his lips.

A polite morning greeting completely escaped him.

Morse recognized in himself a grand failing, a recurring problem, and it was something that no amount of foresight could ever remedy. He fell very hard and very fast. From Susan onward, it had happened anytime he got close to anyone. He remembered vividly coming home after his failed engagement, after he'd lost love and he'd lost his future in one fell swoop, and his father had picked him up from the train in his cab simply because it was on his way to the pub. He hadn't comforted him or even shamed him, only told him in that detached way of his that he'd better get a job soon because he and Gwen wouldn't have a loafer about their house. Numb agreement had been the easiest answer, a complacent 'Yessir', and his father gave him a single back pat and driven the rest of the way to the pub. He ordered them a pint each and he put a bet on the game.

"Too much like yer dad," he'd said, "sucker for a pretty face and a sharp tongue. Lesson learned."

It was one of the few times in memory that he'd been compared to his father in any way besides appearance and if this personality flaw came from him, it could only be a problem.

Lesson learned indeed.

A witty doctor with a penchant for poetry was certainly a problem for Morse. A man who could turn him into a blushing mess with his eyes, who looked at him like he was a masterpiece, who was independent and self possessed was certainly too good to be true. He was, at the very least, too good for _him_ but that knowledge didn't stop Morse from wanting him still. It didn't make his own bone deep loneliness any less.

"Morning," Max watched him a moment with only the slightest twitch of a smile and Morse wondered desperately what was running through the doctor's mind, "There's coffee in the pot."

"Cheers," Morse ruffled his own hair with a quirk of lips and finally moved into the kitchen for a cup. This was the morning after, or the _morning awkward_ as someone once told him, and soon he'd embark on his walk of shame.

"Do you need something to eat?" The doctor asked with tentative care as he tested the waters of their morning encounter.

"No, thanks. Just the cup and... and then I'll get out of your hair," Morse had turned his back on the doctor when he'd started to pour. He felt mildly awkward and was reluctant to see Max's expression as he spoke of fleeing the scene.

There was no reason to drag this out.

"Weekend plans?" Max said genially, not outwardly affected by Morse's intention to do a runner.

"Looking for a flat actually," He said as he blew lightly on the hot cup and turned back to face the man as he sipped it. It was very good. He noticed Max's expression pinch as he came to some sort of internal assumption about Morse's living situation. The thought that the doctor may be getting the wrong impression gnawed on Morse sourly.

"I've got an awkward flatmate arrangement," Another twist of the truth to save face only made him feel worse. He didn't stay over because he needed a bed. He wasn't a couch hopper or leech. He'd stayed because-

"Looking for something of your own then?" Max continued seamlessly, though it was clear his concerns weren't fully relieved.

"Ideally," Morse smiled. He started to walk into the living area, motioning as if for permission and continuing when Max nodded.

"You should really eat something."

"Your diagnosis still stands then?" Morse smirked, "A good night's sleep and a meal in me?"

Max shrugged with mild amusement, "Well, a few hours rest is hardly a cure all."

"I'll get a bite on the way home," Morse said complacently. He could have taken the offer, to sit here and have a meal and get to know the doctor better, but he knew it would be worse for him in the long run. There was no reason to give himself false hope in this. Max turned back to his laptop and from this distance it didn't look like much more than email he was checking.

Morse browsed the selection of movies and then the knick knacks and photos scattered about. Most of the medical antiques looked like torture traps and the mental images they evoked made him loathe to look at them too long. The photos were more interesting (mostly family, at least one young baby) and so were the various framed academic accolades. He wondered at what point too many certificates made you seem egotistical, or if once you'd done that much work you said bugger all to what anyone else thought.

With Max he got the feeling it was the latter.

"Maximilian Theodore Siegfried Debryn," Morse murmured as he looked over a degree from Bart's. He was loud enough that it got Max's attention again and the man looked over his shoulder curiously.

" _Doctor_ Maximilian Theodore Siegfried Debryn," He corrected.

"It's quite a name," Morse smirked.

"Says the man who goes by Morse," Max looked back to his screen again and Morse caught sight of a purple bruise in the curve of the man's shoulder that was just hidden by the shift of his v-neck collar. It gave him smug satisfaction to know that even when he did leave, he'd left something to remember him by.

"It _is_ my real name," Morse emphasized defensively, as if it were in question, "I don't use my given name. When I was up they called me Pagan."

Max quirked a brow over his shoulder at him.

"No Christian name," Morse clarified with a snide curl of lip.

Of course the evasiveness about his first name didn't exactly evoke further trust in people. He knew that. It happened every time he denied someone the pleasure of knowing it. They felt like he couldn't trust them, when in reality he simply didn't want it spoken in the light of day.

"It doesn't suit you," Max said finally and Morse's sneer curled a bit more pleasantly.

_Ask me no more, for fear I should reply._

Max resumed his computer work and Morse turned back to the shelves. The longer he lingered the more he actually wanted to stay and that was a sure sign that he needed to go. His mug was near enough to empty for him to start making excuses. The small twists of truth and small white lies were gnawing a hollow feeling in his gut. Max had been accommodating and considerate and Morse couldn't say the same for himself. A voice in his head told him that this was a one night thing, it was a stranger in a bar, and he owed him nothing but as quick as the thought came, it fled, and he felt foul.

How hard would it be to just out with things? _I wasn't entirely honest._ _I'm a policeman and I just transferred here. I'm stuck in the dorms and its rubbish. I don't do this often either and I think I'd like to see you again_ \- No, that would be sensible and simple. That didn't sound like him at all.

After a few minutes of drifting around the room in silence, Morse moved back to the kitchen to set his mug down. As if sensing his intention to leave, Max was now standing and his laptop had been shut. Morse's heart thudded with sudden dread but he continued on his way, moving around the island and out towards the door. He would simply pass Max. Say goodbye. Thank him. That would be it.

Hell if he didn't want to kiss him again.

Kiss him good morning.

Kiss him goodbye.

'"Thanks for the coffee," Morse stuffed a hand into his jeans for his phone, "And the shower-"

And the sex. The phenomenal sex.

"That all?" Max pursed his lips in amusement and his brows rose as if he'd read the man's mind. When Morse turned red and got a tongue tied grin Max looked very pleased.

 _Right_.

The doctor walked him to the door and Morse felt a trifle more terrible with every step. When it finally opened to the glaring light of day, he wasn't as relieved to see freedom as he'd hoped.

Morse gave Max another glance, a last once over before he fled, and was suddenly caught up in one of his undeniable impulses. He leaned in and kissed him. It didn't hold the dark promises of the evening before, none of the smolder or fire, but the doctor's lips parted under his own and his hand crawled up to bury in Morse's shower-damp curls one last time. It was sweet and gentle and tasted like coffee and toothpaste like all proper morning kisses should.

It was lovely.

They parted with echoed sighs and from Max's pulse he wasn't nearly as cool and collected as he looked. There was some relief in that.

"Thanks," Morse finally said with a smile as he finally pulled away. He was down the stairs in a few long strides and didn't dare look back. He fished his earbuds out of his pocket, put on some music, and turned it up.

It would be a lie to say he hadn't thought about Max that day or even the next. He analyzed every word he'd said, over and over, thought about what ifs and maybes any time he'd a spare moment to himself. He couldn't shake the burning memories of Max's eyes on him or the husky whispered compliments that had made him squirm. He couldn't even shake that morning after softness, the lounge shirt that made the doctor's eyes look more blue under his little wire frames, the smell of him on the pillow, and that goodbye kiss that they'd both needed like air. Once he'd put a half a day between himself and the doctor the initial fixation eased and his own natural distraction set in. He did actually have flats to look at and by the time the weekend wound to a close he was sure he'd seen every single one in the whole of Oxford but was no closer to his own.

Monday morning at the station actually came as a relief. Even when the work was boring (reports, he abhorred reports) there was usually something he could occupy himself with. The company wasn't terrible either, which was a compliment by his own standards. Morse had met Inspector Thursday at his previous station when he'd been called to consult on a case. He'd of course put his nose where it didn't belong as a lowly constable, but Thursday had actually given him the chance to speak. The veteran detective brought him onto the case and by the time they'd wrapped it, he was being offered a position underneath him here in Oxford.

Coming back to the city was no light decision and some days he still saw reminders around corners or reflected in windows, memories flashing like tricks of the light, but as the days slipped by it was easier and easier to forget Susan and Pagan and the dark downward spiral that resulted. Forgetting as much as he could suited Morse just fine. But being the new fish at HQ, hand picked by Thursday, hadn't done him many favors. Being a college boy hadn't either and Town vs. Gown was still alive and well, even in this day and age. He'd unseated sergeants who should have been filling the role, but Thursday was a copper's copper and lived the part. He did things his way and their new Chief Superintendent, Mr. Bright, seemed to allow it for now.

Thursday was a man of a certain generation and a dedicated policeman. He liked beer and football and catching his shows on the telly at night. He loved his wife and adored his children and still listened to the same music that he had in his twenties. His limited scope of pop culture came from his kids, the office or whatever new show his wife Win was getting into. He believed in the law and what was right and he believed that police were to be true and trustworthy in a time when public confidence seemed to be at an all time low. He was experienced and clever and Morse had known immediately that he was someone admirable and someone he'd be proud to work with.

"What's this mean, Morse?" Thursday hovered in the doorway to his office with his cell phone being drawn forward and backward in front of his eyes as if that would improve his comprehension of what was on the screen, "Are those Obama's eyes?"

"I think that's a meme, sir," Morse was possibly the last person to ask about memes but he was the closest to the door and Thursday always assumed, probably due to his age, that he'd be on the pulse of things. Morse didn't watch TV much, nor listen to the radio. His media consumption was carefully selected, downloaded or streamed and didn't run outside of very select subject matter. He also had no social media outside of dead accounts that were too old to acknowledge.

" _Then perish.._ " Sergeant Jakes murmured by Thursday's shoulder and he carried with him the overly sweet smell of strawberry vape and chewing gum. His efforts to quit smoking had simply branched out into several other obnoxious habits instead.

"Bloody Sam," Thursday muttered as he poked a response back to his son. Without looking up he continued, "Jakes, if you can't chew your cud with your mouth shut-"

"Sir," Jakes spit his gum into a tissue and gave Morse a suspicious look. Jakes was the man who should have been Thursday's partner and he already seemed to have a chip on his shoulder when it came to that fact. Jakes was swarthy and dark haired with a 'stylishly tousled' look that Morse was sure took him hours to achieve. He was all slim fits and expensive shoes and he fit right in with the usual police crowd. Jakes was every bit the _cop_ that Morse wasn't.

Morse was a _detective_.

"What'd you do this weekend, Morse?" Jakes hiked a leg to sit on the corner of Morse's desk, pushing his stapler and mouse across the desktop without care, "Get a bit of tail? You look like you slept in that shirt."

Jakes always put Morse on the defensive and he scowled in response, not unusual, but Thursday was still standing there with his attention on his phone and to assume he wasn't listening was a mistake. He could have on blaring headphones with his eyes closed and he'd still know everything happening around him.

"Jakes, weren't you working on some numbers for Mr. Bright?"

"Sorry, sir," Jakes said with a smooth and crooked smile, not in the least bit sorry, as he stood back up, "Just interested in our golden child, that's all."

Thursday glanced away from his phone finally and dropped it into his trouser pocket. His eyes dragged over Morse and he frowned, "You _could_ run an iron over that shirt, Morse. Have a little pride man."

Morse's phone rang, a suicide by the river.

"Get on then," Thursday turned back for his office as his phone buzzed again, "Stretch those legs. If it's anything suspicious let me know."

Morse was relieved to get out of the office as soon as he could, away from Jakes's continual ribbing and probing into his personal life at the very least. Without his own vehicle, he had to find his own way there and by the time he arrived at the scene SOCO had already completed most of their work. Uniformed officers hovered about waiting for the body to be removed and down the gentle slope of turf leading to the bank he could see the pathologist hunched over in the familiar blue scene suit. Morse approached reluctantly, his eyes fixed on the corpse by the riverside until he was close enough for it to completely revolt him.

He had another grand failing, another in a long list probably, and it was something much more detrimental to his job than being a romantic. He was afraid of blood and bodies. He actually hated the word 'afraid' because it didn't adequately describe the feeling at all. It was a completely irrational physical response and logically he found nothing particularly horrific about the corpses, but to see one made his palms sweat and his stomach turn and the addition of blood made him weak in the knees.

A therapist told him once that it was a residual psychological response to childhood trauma.

Therapy didn't last long.

Morse approached the corpse from a slow and careful distance and kept his head turned sideways when he finally spoke up with a clipped greeting, "Good morning."

"Not for this poor sod," The drawl of the surgeon was low and before Morse could see him, he saw the body again, this time too closely.

The inside of the young man's skull splattered in vivid crimson across the grass and it immediately turned his stomach. Morse had to turn away, puffing a breath as the initial wave of nausea and lightheadedness passed.

"You are whom?"

"Morse, Detective Constable," Morse turned, eyes diverting away from the body to the approaching man.

It was Max.

 _Doctor Maximilian Theodore Siegfried Debryn_ , he could hear it in his head as Max had said it a few mornings ago. Morse felt a rush of heat in his surprise and hoped to god it didn't translate as a blush. His mood didn't know whether to sink or soar and Morse was momentarily paralyzed with internal turmoil. He counted his blessings that Thursday and Jakes weren't here.

Max's brows lifted and there may have been a twitch at the corner of his lips but nothing more.

"You're the pathologist?" When Morse finally spoke the words felt foolish and thick in his mouth. He was glad there were no officers in earshot, because the disbelief in his voice was hard to hide and sounded rather rude out of context.

"Better hope so, hadn't you? Otherwise those officers over there are doing a very poor job, my cosplay is very on point, and I'm making one hell of a mess of your crime scene," Max seemed happy to play the game of them not knowing one another and extended a bloody hand for a shake.

Morse couldn't formulate a retort when the sight of the blood on his fingers erased, very suddenly, every other thought. He inhaled sharply and looked away and Max, looking genuinely offended for the bat of an eye, realized the problem and pulled his glove off with an obnoxious snap.

Morse exhaled and finally clasped his hand in greeting. He did his best to handle the feeling of seeing Max again and touching Max again combined with the glaring reality that there was a body several feet away and those same hands had touched that as well.

"Max Debryn," The doctor didn't linger in the shake and seemed ever more collected than Morse certainly felt.

"Is it then?" Morse licked his lips and looked down at the corpse, still not daring to near it, but it was time to focus on work. He could at least present himself as a competent policeman if nothing else, "A crime scene? The initial reports suggested suicide.."

"It appears to be but that decision is yours, not mine. I can tell you that the cause of death is, in the immortal words of 2Pac, a bullet to the brain," Droll hip-hop references aside, Max was all business and moved back to the body to outline the details. Crouching again, he pointed out the entry wound, angle and residual powders. He was concise and professional and didn't seem to leave anything out. Morse heard the usual diagnostic lists, absorbed the facts and filed them away, but continued to keep his distance and avert his gaze. Each time he saw the blood on the grass he felt his legs wobble and his skin get clammy.

"-suggests the weapon was fired at point blank range, as you can see..?" The doctor glanced up and around, only to realize that Morse hadn't moved a step closer.

"I'll take your word for it," The detective said sickly.

"Squeamish are we?" Debryn looked both amused and disappointed, "You won't make much of a detective if you're not prepared to look death in the eye."

Morse felt it again, that feeling from the pub, that prickle of annoyance that Max seemed to find his buttons and push them with minimal effort. It was as irritating now as it had been then and with much less beer to grease the wheels.

"Find me when you're done," Morse said sourly as he turned and trudged back up the hill.

He at least knew which car to wait by. Morse leaned against the wheel well of the Range Rover and gathered himself. He'd certainly wanted to see the doctor again but this wasn't exactly what he'd had in mind. Maybe he'd have run into him in that pub again or just passed him on the street. They could have had a laugh and Morse would have finally confessed, with a few drinks down, that he was a policeman and he'd been too self conscious to mention it. Maybe it would seem charming but it wouldn't be dire. Maybe they could have gone out for coffee or brunch.

Now they were coworkers.

Morse straightened as Max came trudging up the slope unzipping his powder blue coveralls, "Finished?"

"The hors d'oeuvres. Entree this afternoon, three o'clock sharp," Max pulled open the back door of the vehicle and put his kit inside. He stripped the coveralls fully off and bunched them up into a disposal bag.

Morse was rather tickled to see the bow tie make a return appearance and it complemented today's choice in vintage frames rather well. In tweed and navy he had certainly perfected the professional, stalwart surgeon look.

Morse couldn't even manage to get out with an ironed shirt and he hadn't cared a bit about it until right now, when he felt positively slovenly.

"You can't call me with the results, can you? Or email them?" Morse kept back to the topic at hand and as he thought of the body he curled his lip in dismay.

"Standing me up already, Morse? Inspector Thursday would call that laziness and others might call it poor manners," There was something of an edge in that one and Morse wasn't sure if it was deliberate or his own guilty conscience.

"I can tell you that preliminary inspection of the bullet says the weapon is probably a SIG Sauer P226," Max smoothed his blazer and produced his keys from a pocket.

"19mm round. That's a standard service pistol," Morse thought aloud only to catch Max's slightly interested glance. He smirked to himself mostly, and repeated on instinct, "Not entirely a fool."

Max bowed his head and bounced on his toes with a small smile, "Not entirely."

"Time of death?"

"Between 8 and midnight."

"Did he leave anything behind?"

"Besides his grey matter upon the greensward?" Max said light and evasive.

"I was thinking more of a note," Morse looked disgusted anew with the casual morbidity. He could see suited figures in the distance finally moving the body into a van to be taken away.

"Not that I've come across," Max patted himself down and then opened the car door more to produce a plastic evidence bag with a mailing envelope and a second with a cell phone, "You may have better luck at his place. Miles Percival. Address is in Jericho."

Morse turned the bagged letter over in his hands and the cell phone was dead.

Max only lingered another moment before he moved to the driver's door and opened it. Morse's mind was already moving on the case, following his breadcrumbs to where he needed to be, but he also needed to get there.

"Don't suppose I could get a lift?" Morse spoke up hopefully.

Max looked surprised a moment, perhaps even a bit frustrated, but did end up agreeing with a nod of the head.

Inside the isolation of the vehicle it suddenly seemed like a terrible idea and Morse buzzed with uneasy anticipation about who would speak first.

Max started the engine, pulled out, and glanced at Morse with that ever familiar brow furrow through mirror.

Morse's eyes shifted to the window, then his hands, then back to Max as he opened his mouth to speak.

Max's mouth was also opening.

"Oh- you go ah-"

"Oh, no by all means," Max said with polite insistence.

"I _was_ at Lonsdale for Classics," Morse breathed out quickly and glanced at Max as if to reinforce what he'd said before, he wasn't a liar.

"I've worked that out. You're Fred Thursday's new man. College boy, transfer from Newtown was it?" Max looked at him again and Morse realized that the night they'd drove home from the pub the doctor's silence must have been concentrating on the road. It wasn't awkwardness at all, just safety after a few drinks.

Morse certainly didn't like that news of him had travelled this fast though.

"Jakes has a mouth on him," Max clarified, "If you hadn't noticed."

Morse hoped that didn't have anything but the usual meaning.

Max made a turn, falling quiet once more until they were stopped at a light, "You could have told me you were a policeman, Morse."

"Could I have?" Morse said quickly. Knowing what he knew now, wouldn't it have ruined something? "People get funny when they find out you're a cop," Morse continued, strangely feeling better to just out with it, "Besides if I had... then what?"

Max tilted his head a bit, clearly thinking the same thing, that if he'd known than nothing would have happened. They wouldn't have had that night, and instead they would have met today in a funny coincidence, acquainted only as _that snob_ and _that prick_ from the pub.

"Did you find a flat?" Max changed the subject at the stop light. He fished for his phone and put it in a dashboard mount to plug it in to its charger. Morse couldn't read the screen but it looked busy and the top bar was packed with notifications. Knowing now what Max did for a living gave him a very different perspective on him. Pathology was a far cry from what a normal person visualizes when they hear the word 'doctor'.

"Eh," Morse looked back out the window and scratched the back of his neck, "It's not exactly a great time for openings. Everythings too pricey or too far."

The car started moving again, "I can ask around for you, if you'd like..?"

"Yeah?" Morse was surprised by the offer and looked back at the doctor, "That'd be great actually."

"You don't have to look so surprised. For better or worse," Max pinned him with his eyes through the mirror, "You and I will be seeing quite a bit of one another from now on."

They would, wouldn't they?

Somehow Morse wasn't feeling as anxious anymore. The nervousness had fled completely and he felt a small smile touching his face.

The Range Rover stopped at an intersection that Morse knew very well was only a block from where he was headed but Max pulled the vehicle over.

"I'm not in the habit of hand-holding constables who can't find transportation," Max leaned back in his seat, hands sliding off of the wheel into his knees. Morse was momentarily distracted by them, "You can walk the rest of the way. I'm turning here."

"Thanks for lift, really," Morse put his hand on the door and paused with a small smile, "Don't suppose this means I can finally ask for your number?"

Max's eyebrows bobbed upwards before he shook his head and curled beckoning fingers for Morse's phone. He typed it in and handed it back, "You could have asked before."

Morse only flashed a bigger grin for a split second before he slid out and onto the pavement.

The window rolled down, Max leaning before he pulled away, "Remember our date, Morse!"

The detective puzzled.

"Hospital. Three o'clock. Sharp!" And then he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize if feels clunky in places. I got nitpicky to the point of being tired of it!!  
> \- Max is listening to Sawbones, dont @ me  
> \- no apologies for the 2pac quote.  
> \- rainbow bowtie cameo for the morseverse discord peeps ;D  
> \- that is absolutely an easter egg of Peter Woodthorpe as Max's grandfather.  
> 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the case has ended and Morse is an emotionally fickle mess.

The simple suicide case had spiralled into something much more grand, much more intricate, and much more heart wrenching than Morse could have ever expected. It had convoluted and intertwining plots, a huge cast of characters, and as many dead ends as there were clues. Like a good puzzle always did, it ate away at Morse until it was all he could think about. Soon one body had turned into two, both connected to one another and the college. Mr. Bright didn't seem fond of Morse's leaps in logic nor did he appreciate when the constable pursued leads after being told to lay off, but then some of Morse's long shots had paid off and, as was often the way with the police department, the ends certainly justified the means.

Dr. Stromming and Alexander Reece were at the start of this tale, two bored Oxford dons with nothing better to do than play with the lives of young people for their own entertainment and a pittance of a bet. Reece had been up with Morse at Oxford and they'd run in the same circles. He'd always been haughty and egotistical, and while he wasn't their killer, it seemed that over the years Alex had developed a bored and idle cruelty.

Morse hadn't expected each nasty prickle of his past to bite back so swiftly or so concisely. Of course, Alex would find a way bring up Susan. Of course, he would make Morse freshly feel like an outsider. Of course, he would make coming back to Oxford seem like it had been a huge mistake. Each crawling moment in his presence reinforced it and for a moment he'd even had Morse believing it himself. By the time the anger flared, Alex was so entirely self possessed that he couldn't even tell. He had the bollocks to invite Morse to dinner and was so casually flippant that the detective was almost convinced to agree, as surely the problem here could lay only with himself.

Everything began to rub him the wrong way. Morse clashed with his superiors, he disobeyed orders, and with each rejection of his ideas and each dismissal of his leads, he grew more and more agitated. He was frustrated, he was tired, he was _puzzled_ and moment by moment the resignation email he'd drafted back in Newtown, when he'd been ready to throw it all in, was looking more and more tempting to finally send.

But then came his own foolishness and his own blindness and he wondered if they all weren't correct in their criticism after all. Her name was Mrs. Rosalind Stromming. All it took was one angelic face, one heavenly voice. The grace. The poise. He fell in love with her. One single moment and that was enough. His emotions ran high and intertwined and inexplicably bound together with the case itself. He knew he had to solve it, even if he couldn't have her and even if she would never have him.

Once the truth had outed it would ache to think of Mrs. Stromming. The case had never been about a jealous boyfriend or underage girls or illegal parties. It wasn't about secret passwords on the backs of hands or puzzle setters or government cover ups. It came down to a wife who loved her husband so much that she would kill for him.

She was lovely and Morse had been blind to reasonable suspicion and he'd made a fool of himself. She had also played him a fool but he couldn't even fault her for it. She'd murdered two young people with their whole lives ahead of them for her husband, a man surely not worth it and definitely not worthy of her. When they'd found her hanging in her jail cell, when they'd yelled for the doctor too late, Morse had screamed and wept as if she'd also been his to lose.

Inspector Thursday hadn't judged him as he sagged against the wall and waited for the doctor to arrive. He'd almost forgotten that it would be Max again, as it had been with all the bodies. Max and his morbid theatrics. Morse vividly remembered Mary Tremlett's corpse moments before he'd fainted to the cold tile and even though sense told him Mrs. Stromming wouldn't undergo the same treatment, his heart wrenched at the idea of her being cut and peeled apart, dissected like a specimen, and he was suddenly angry at the doctor for an act against her that he hadn't even committed yet.

Why did it have to be Max? It would always be him, wouldn't it, showing up to witness Morse at his weakest? To poke and prod at all his buttons?

They waited until she was declared and taken away but Morse didn't want to go back to those communal dorms. He tried to stay at his desk a while, do paperwork, do anything to dull the raw pain and frustration and make him forget her laying on a cold slab, but Thursday hauled him out for a drink to steady his nerves before he dropped him back. He was very kind about it, reassuring and encouraging, but by the end of night Morse only felt numb.

The reality of going into his room and socializing with the unwashed masses, of being congratulated on his job well done and a case well solved, was repugnant. He wasn't sure he could stand it. He didn't even want to imagine what they might say, what they were already saying about _her_...

Morse took out his phone, stared at it dully, and after a long and anxious moment he sent a text.

 

> [ are you home? ]

He stared at it. It was too late to take it back. He shouldn't have been messaging him at all at this hour, especially after what had happened and how he'd reacted. But he watched the dots spring up and begin to dance. Typing, pause, then typing again.

 

> **MD** [ yes ]

Morse was exhausted and so emotionally drained that any thrill he should have had going back to that house was simply absent. As much as he wanted peace and quiet, he also didn't want to be alone. He found the door unlocked when he arrived and came in without a second's pause.

The first floor was dark so he locked the door behind him and followed the blue white electric glow at the top of the stairs like a beacon. The flickering light issued from one of those unexplored side rooms that he'd noticed when he was here last and Morse peeked through the crack curiously before he pushed himself inside.

It was here that he suddenly found all the little bits of personality that every other room politely restrained. At first glance everything was personably austere, but much deeper it was busy and quirky and entirely unique. It fit Max perfectly and this room was definitely the heart. The walls were lined with overflowing book shelves, packed and intriguing where they weren't broken up with knick-knacks that Morse couldn't make out in the dark. A busy desk and computer sat askance a curtained bay window that looked down onto the street. There were discarded sweaters on chairs, beat up trainers by the door, and days old teacups scattered across shadowed surfaces. Across the mantle were empty wine bottles, collected and lined up with fishing lures hooked in their mouths and a floppy bucket hat hanging from off the end. The TV above was playing a recorded episode of Graham Norton at low volume and on a battered sofa that had seen better days, sat Max in the same clothes he'd seen him in at HQ minus shoes and tie.

He was eating a pint of ice cream and drinking a glass of wine.

Max glanced up at him, "Did you lock up?"

Morse nodded as he toed off his shoes.

Max offered him a spoon and said nothing else.

Morse gratefully collapsed beside him into the sofa and accepted the pint of black cherry when it was handed his way. A glass of wine was slid in front of him next and while he didn't really pay attention to what was going on with the show, he was grateful for the white noise. They sat in silent company, passing the ice cream back and forth until it was gone and chuckling when the odd joke struck funny. The only conversation was idle commentary ('Have you seen that?' He hadn't, but he he liked the actor 'We can skip the musical guest, unless you want to see them' No need 'We are truly blessed in this age of fast forward' Morse laughed). By the time the end credits were rolling the crushing weight in his chest had eased and his sharp edges worn down. He was grateful to Max for this and didn't know how to say it, so he didn't. He wasn't exactly sure that he even deserved the easy camaraderie they'd struck up.

"Is this what you do?" When Morse finally initiated he sounded more condescending than he meant to, "Wine and ice cream?"

Max's eyes cut to Morse with a judgemental lift of brows and a glance up and down the whole of the man spread akimbo on his sofa, "Is this what you do?"

He knew what he meant. Showing up in the middle of the night, no intentions declared, and them knowing one another only a few days... And why? Because he had a bad week at work? Because he felt like he and Max had some sort of unspoken understanding?

"Sorry," Morse meant it. Apologies only came easily to him when they were genuine and in this case Max was entirely right in his implications. He didn't know what to say, everything and nothing, and the quiet which had been so welcome before now felt heavy.

"Do you want to talk about it?" The offer sounded rusty from the doctor, and while the effort was appreciated, Max sounded rightfully wary to extend himself.

"No," and Morse, like most people who said that, continued anyway, "Coming back here was a mistake. Oxford I mean, not _here_ here," Morse drained his wine and his lips curled with disgust as he remembered his run-ins with Reece, "This place ruins people."

Max looked at him curiously, "Is that a note of experience I detect?"

Morse didn't answer.

"That's not Oxford, Morse. It's life and you are a police officer," the doctor said concisely and Morse detected that slightly bored exasperation, as if Max had heard something cliche and was disappointed. Morse was beginning to wonder if that wasn't simply his usual affectation. "The thin blue line, _etcetera, etcetera_ ," he rolled a hand idly and enunciated like the King of Siam, "You signed on to see the worst society has to offer and clean it up."

"I wonder about that. Maybe I shouldn't have. I could go back to school. Finish my degree?" Morse looked at Max but the doctor was looking at the TV again and he couldn't see his eyes past the shining glare on his glasses. He looked distant, strange and untouchable.

"I certainly can't make that decision for you," Max finally glanced over, "But we're to bursting with academics around here and all they seem to do is make a lot of noise, bugger each other and then knock one another off."

The doctor was privy to more of the investigations than most people would think. No one thought twice about talking out the case or even arguing in front of him or the SOCO team. Most of the department ignored them like blades of grass or pieces of furniture until they needed their expertise. Max had played silent witness to some of what Morse could do and he'd seen the jealousy in the other police when he ended up being correct, "Seems to me like we could use a clever policeman for once but what you really need to ask yourself is, where do you see yourself in twenty years?"

Morse stared into his empty glass and worked that thought over. The more time he put between himself and his failures, the less important they seemed. He wasn't going to quit the force. He knew it in his bones. For every moment someone made him feel he didn't belong, every fibre of his being railed back for him to prove them wrong. He'd been fighting for this his whole life.

"How do you do it every day?" Morse said after a moment of thought, "All the bodies. All that death."

"It's my job. I went through a lot of schooling and frankly, waded through a lot of shit for this position. I worked for it. Like, I imagine, you have and continue to work at being a detective knowing full well that you have several near crippling phobias that turn up to eleven the moment you walk onto a crime scene."

Morse smiled bitterly at Max's glaring honesty. He wasn't sure what he expected and shook his head with a huffed laugh, "I wouldn't say crippling.."

"No?" Max actually laughed a bit and sat up straighter, "No, of course you were very keen on the autopsy from the mortuary floor."

Morse had nearly forgotten his fainting spell. He'd been so determined to tough it out, confident he could do it, then Max begun peeling back the scalp and there was all that blood. Even now it turned his stomach. Morse had come to on Max's office sofa with a cool cloth on his head and Thursday and the doctor sitting around casually talking about someone's upcoming retirement do as they waited for him to rouse. He'd clearly missed the entire autopsy and it only dawned on him later that both of them had left him to rest, "You were very dramatic about it. I wasn't expecting.."

Max barked another small laugh, "Yes, of course. _It was me_. Because I just can't resist an audience."

The doctor looked back to the television and the reflection in his chic glasses once more made him appear a bit eerie with his fading smile, "They are just bodies, Morse. Meat sacks. Inert flesh. To me, they are crime scenes in themselves and I do right by them in my way," His head rolled along the sofa back and Morse caught his sidelong glance, "And you do right by them in yours. You take care of the soul... I take care of the body."

Morse took a deep breath and his lip curled derisively, "It's not about the soul."

"Isn't it?" Max drained his wine finally, "The victims being given the respect they deserve? The truth to soothe the families? Your own compulsive need to pursue justice? Or even something as simple as quieting your own mind once its confronted with a puzzle..."

" _Whatever satisfies the soul is truth_ ," Morse murmured sotto voce. Max was right yet again.

The doctor leaned for his phone, checked the time, and slipped it into the front pocket of his shirt, "Now, as much as late night philosophical conjecture really gets me going, one of us has a body in the morgue waiting for them first thing tomorrow-"

The pang in his chest for Mrs. Stromming struck keenly and Morse reached for the other man with a thick swallow, his hand curling around Max's wrist and holding, "Can I stay?"

"I do intend on sleeping, Morse," Max warned and when the detective's grip still held he seemed to relax warily, "And I'm not driving you anywhere tomorrow morning."

Morse let out a breath he didn't know he was holding and nodded, "I'll get myself home early."

Max turned the TV off and his agreement came when he found Morse's hand and squeezed it. There was silent support and affection from the doctor that seemed much easier for him to give in the dark.

Going to bed with Max was much different this time around and Morse found himself drawn in by the simplistic ritual of it. They took turns washing up and Morse noticed the little things. Max, it turned out, was someone who made and turned down his bed before he settled in, he had a few prescriptions that he took nightly doses of, and he made a point to select and hang out his clothes in advance for the next day. The doctor triple checked his alarms and last minute phone alerts before he finally plugged it in by the bedside and he didn't even start undressing until all of that was finished. What Morse had taken as simplicity in the bedroom space was actually functionality. Max had rather poor eyesight without his glasses and it was a fastidiousness born of need.

Morse watched and silently enjoyed it. The rhythm of the routine was soothing but once he realized he was staring, he finally began to undress himself. Halfway through his shirt buttons, Max was there to intercept. Morse wasn't quite sure what prompted the doctor's interest but craving in affection as he was, he wasn't going to say no. He returned the favor in silence and when Max's shirt was also gone he pressed his hands to the man's skin and smoothed his palms across his chest. The mark he'd left on the doctor's neck had faded into a yellowing smudge of a bruise and Morse dipped his head to press his lips there in acknowledgment. Max shivered under the kiss and there was a tentative moment where the doctor's warm hands squeezed his hips before, with some noticeable reluctance, he finally moved away.

Morse was rather enthusiastic about climbing into the large and comfortable bed and he stretched with a pleased groan under Max's very amused gaze.

"Your bed is a lot nicer than mine," Morse smirked and settled in, fluffing a pillow behind his head.

"I'd hope it's better than a dorm single, it cost me enough," Max joined him and shifted to cut the light, "For my back."

In the dark Morse turned towards Max and tucked his arm under his head. He waited for his eyes to adjust, "You have back problems?"

Max stretched and bits of him cracked and popped. The doctor made a satisfied sound, "Something like that."

Morse watched him in the dim light and though he didn't realize it, the miserable day had disappeared from his mind. In the morning it would all come back. When he got back to the station, or maybe on the way, when he thought about the reports or the official closing of the case it would hit him once again. But for these blissful moments Mrs. Stromming and his own flash of heartbreak were out of sight and out of mind.

When Max rolled onto his side and tucked his own arm under his head, when Morse caught sight of that tattoo he enjoyed so much and met the doctor's eyes in the dark he felt that tingling heat spread through him. It was fresh and sharp and unlike the last night they spent together, they were both sober and there were no lies or half truths hanging between them. He was taking freedoms here with Max that he wouldn't with others but somehow it seemed alright.

His free hand drifted first, slid out to touch Max in the dark, and to pull himself close. The doctor complied in silence and when the final distance had been crossed they kissed for the first time since that goodbye days ago. It was slow and soft and the doctor's free arm curled around the detective's waist to pull him tight. Then the single kiss turned into a string of them, warm and full and lovely. Nothing escalated, nothing got heated, but Morse could feel his body warming with his mood and when they finally broke apart he was smiling like a soppy fool and couldn't help himself.

They didn't say anything else. Max rolled over and Morse curled around his back and pressed his lips to the warmth of the doctor's shoulder. Morse's angles fit quite well against the curves of Debryn and when he wrapped his arm around the man's middle he felt Max's fingers curl around his wrist and settle over his pulse.

Morse woke several times in the night. It wasn't easy getting used to sharing a bed with someone. Each time one of them shifted it brought some level of awareness and Max, while not particularly invasive, seemed to toss and turn a lot seeking comfort. At some point Morse woke with a start but there was nothing he could tell to have caused it. His heart was racing and his body was flushed and he felt like he was on the verge of something dangerous but there was nothing but him and this bed and Max sleeping beside him. Morse rolled away to check the time and felt the pathologist gravitate towards him in his sleep. Max played big spoon this time and those last few hours of rest were solid and undisturbed and safe.

Too soon came Max's alarm, a blare of something bombastic and jarring that physically jolted through Morse's body like a slap in the face. Max sleepily fumbled the phone into silence and was clearly used to the obnoxious tone by his blasé response. When Morse clung against him and tried to leech a few more moments of closeness Max grunted for release from the man's grip and slipped out of the bed to make for the bathroom.

Morse blearily checked the time and it took much too long for him to absorb it. It took even longer for him to figure out how long he would need to get home, changed, and out to work. He wasn't actually sure how long it took for him to haul himself up finally but by the time he reached the hall, he could hear the shower running.

Morse gave no warning when he invaded Max's shower. He pressed to the man's back, draped an arm around his shoulders from behind and bent over him towards the water to soak his head. He hadn't really thought much about the action before he'd done it. He was in a sleepy, detached comfort seeking state of mind but as the water finally drummed over him and woke his sensibilities Morse realized that Max was very still in his arms.

Morse opened his eyes through his dripping hair and caught the doctor staring at him with a look of naked admiration. Morse thought of their first night together, Max's gaze like burning hands on his skin, and the memory sizzled arousal through his veins and had his body twitching with interest. Max's expression, now that he'd been caught, shuttered cautiously and he looked away, straight ahead, and curled a hand around the arm across his chest.

"What do you want from me, Morse?" Max sounded tired but he hadn't moved away or tossed Morse out. His thumb rubbed across the lean arm around his shoulders and it sent warm flutters through the taller man.

Morse didn't have an answer. His first instinct was to say he wanted nothing, but he knew for certain now that would be a lie. The feeling he had with Max like this, even last night when they'd just sat together, was far from nothing. But he didn't have the words for what he did want. He wasn't so sure himself besides that he enjoyed this and enjoyed Max and while he could, he wanted to cling to the way that made him feel. With no words of his own to express it, as he often did, Morse used someone else's, " _Happiness, not in another place but this place… not for another hour, but this hour._ "

A quotation was hardly a direct answer but Max seemed to stew on it. Morse remembered that night in the car outside of the house, watching Max make up his mind before kissing him. There were more cards on the table now and more known complications so when Max finally turned under his arm, lifted on his toes and kissed him under the shower spray there was an entirely new and fresh and wonderfully charged feeling. Morse knew it shouldn't be anything beyond this, that this understanding was for the moment only, but something elated exploded in his chest and shot out into every inch of him as they wrapped their arms around one another and embraced.

By the time they broke apart, Max had his hands once more buried in Morse's wet hair and he tilted his lips to the man's ear and coyly drawled, "I'm still not driving you anywhere."

The playfulness in Max's tone startled a laugh from Morse, "I would never presume…"

Max looked bemused when he finally set back on his heels, "You presumed to get into my shower."

Morse's lips curled coyly, "Well I knew if I could only sway you on one thing, it should be this one."

"I don't have an hour either," The doctor's hand slid down Morse's chest, fingers seeking and finding every dip and divot, and sending his mind back to the thorough way he'd been explored by those hands before. Max's thumb pressed into the bruise by his navel, faded as much as Max's had, then lower to wrap around Morse's cock and run his thumb across the tip.

Morse shuddered and huffed a small laugh. He'd almost forgotten how the doctor's mood could shift from reluctance to control when given the smallest permission, "An hour was figurative.."

"Hopefully the rest of it wasn't," Max's eyebrows bobbed and his hand tightened and Morse inhaled. His hands slid to Max's arse and gripped him.

"Definitely not," Morse's hips pressed to the hand and he dipped his head for another kiss.  They both opened up hungrily and there was no doubt that Max had wanted this as much as he did. When the kiss broke, both men were panting and Morse's hand had ghosted around Max's hip to also wrap around his rigid length.

Morse wanted to say something, tell him he'd thought about him, tell him he'd wanted this, tell him he'd wanted to see him again as soon as he'd walked out that door days ago, but the look in Max's eyes told him not to say too much. This wasn't a time for confessions, only satisfaction. Each man's body pressed into the other's palm and rocked with greedy rolls of hips. Their foreheads pressed together under the steady pressure of the shower and as they looked in each other's eyes many things fell away unsaid.

They stayed like that, holding close, foreheads touching, blue eyes locked and breath mingling as they huffed and moaned in unison. The men brought each other to climax within moments of one another, kissing desperately until they gasped into one another's mouths and pulsed their end into rough hands and delicious touches and teasing fingers.

They sagged against one another as the evidence of their activities washed down the drain. Max's face pressed into Morse's throat and Morse leaned heavily against the doctor's steady body to hold him up. When he finally regained his senses Max's hand was gliding along his jaw and guiding him into another string of slow and sated kisses and it did nothing to lessen the warm tingle through his limbs or the affectionate curl in Morse's gut.

"I've got to go to work," Max finally murmured, his voice thick and rough, and Morse nodded his acknowledgement, "You should eat something."

Morse laughed, he couldn't help it, "Not giving up on that, hm?"

"Do you even know when you ate last? I know you came here from the station last night.." Max's hand finally slipped from his cheek and he took a deep breath. Morse did too, needing the air to ease the heady feeling that had taken over. Reminding him of the case brought a mild wave of guilt over his own fickle emotions.

"I'll get something on the way home," Morse acquiesced and averted his eyes. Thinking of work was sobering and the taller man straightened to stick his head under the water once more.

"I'll believe it when I see it," Max snorted and finally shut off the spray when they were rinsed.

Morse had simply dried off and thrown his clothes on as he readied to leave and he was mussed and damp still by the time he'd gathered all of his meager belongings. Max, much more methodical and organized, was already sliding the day's bow-tie around his collar in front of the mirror. As much as Morse would have enjoyed watching his routine more fully, he most definitely had to go. He paused to press a kiss to Max's silvering temple, it was impulsive and affectionate and the pathologist merely smirked at him through the mirror's reflection.

"Eat something," He reiterated.

"I will," Morse huffed as he frisked himself to make sure he had everything one more time.

"Oh," Max blinked, "I may have got a lead on a flat. I'll text you."

Morse couldn't help a small smile, "Thanks." And he paused, maybe wanting to say something stupid and soft, but meeting Max's eyes again told him he shouldn't. That line wasn't ready to be crossed.

"Maybe I'll see you later?" Morse said instead.

"If there's a murder, you mean?" Max snorted.

Morse looked a bit horrified, "Not what I meant." 

"Maybe," Max went back to his tie and shrugged coyly, "Dunno."

Morse couldn't help a bemused purse of lips before he pulled himself away and finally headed home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know we have all probably seen the Pilot so it gets a summary. The intricacies of it would fill a whole chapter on it's own and I didn't want to do a casefic sorry y'all.  
> I know I didn't spend a ton of time on the fainting scene, lol, but I did mention it for you who asked ;D
> 
> Quotes from Walt Whitman again, some King and I, and Max snuck in a bit of Spinal Tap.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An interlude of male bonding. Kind of.

In the rear view mirror Jim Strange looked like he filled up the entire backseat. Not because of his size, though he was a big lad, but because he'd planted himself squarely in the center of the bench seat and was leaning so far forward that his head nearly poked over the console of the Range Rover into the front.

"Is this new, Doc?" Jim nodded a satisfied head around at the interior, "You're doing alright, hm?"

Morse made a bit of a face at that.

"It's a couple of years old," Max was driving their trio a ways out of Oxford to collect the assemblage of Morse's life from what equated to handful of boxes in a twenty five cubic foot storage space.

After he'd left college he had packed up the entirety of his existence and put it away. He'd felt so solid then in his last year of undergrad, engaged and ready to set himself on a path with some real permanence. It was something he felt he'd been seeking his entire life, so to have it all collapse was devastating. He compartmentalized everything, broke it all down to the essential and the extra, and every bit of excess was boxed, filed and stored away until the eventual day he was ready to bring it all back out again. Through his various moves, through his father's home and Newtown, he'd only been back a few isolated times to pick up or put away one thing or other. Morse had essentially been living out of a suitcase for nearly a decade.

His chin rested on his hand as he stared out the window and Strange and Debryn easily moved into talking about mid-ranged SUV's, how the vehicle did offroad, particularly rough crime scene access, and a possible fishing trip sometime in the future but Morse had checked out by that point and was paying more attention to the music.

The other two seemed content to leave him be.

Strange was ex-Navy, a uniformed Constable who'd begun working with them on the most recent case. He was big and burly and like a lot of soldiers who'd left service, he had the appearance of someone who'd formerly been very in shape and had fallen out of routine in the civilian life. He cut a rather intimidating figure, especially with all the tattoos, but here in the car he seemed a clean cut t-shirt and jeans sort of bloke. Jim was about as friendly an every-man as a copper could be which meant that he was, very nearly, Morse's exact opposite.

They'd been down the pub after Strange had wrapped up his first significant arrest and Max had come around with some people from the hospital at the PC's request. Morse had bought the doctor a drink in thanks for the lead on the flat as he was signing the lease the very next day. The big man had overheard.

"Got a place, finally?" Strange had been in a very helpful mood, bolstered by his fresh success, "When are you moving? Need some help?"

"Oh-" Morse shook his head and grimaced at the thought of his move being any sort of event, "No I'm alright."

"You're moving into a flat with no belongings, Morse? Are you one of those Living Simply people? If I'd have known we could have got you one of those tiny houses on wheels," Max smirked as he sipped his drink.

"I _own_ things," Morse defended, "I've got a storage unit."

"Well there you go then, matey," Strange had given him a hearty back pat which had Morse curling lightly into himself, "We can go unload your swag and get you done up right in the new place. Get some beer and pizza. Make a day of it."

Max seemed to be able to tell that Morse very much didn't want this, so of course he made a point to be as helpful as possible, "I'll drive."

And now, some days later, they were loaded into the Rover and headed outside the city to retrieve the meager pickings of his life from where they'd been locked quietly away for years. It wasn't a long drive but long enough for the conversation to eventually wear itself out and Morse to have been given a chance to turn up the music. Strange was the type of man who replied with 'everything' when you asked him what he listened to and Max seemed amenable to whatever Morse put on, which was probably the doctor's attempt at peace making for ensuring this venture followed through.

The grand unveiling of his belongings ended up as anticlimactic as anyone could expect. It certainly wasn't necessary to have three grown men to do the job but Jim was very interested in anything that wasn't sealed and labelled. The largest item was a bike, an older model and not taken out since college, set up on it's flat tires against the back wall.

"I didn't know you biked," Max commented as Strange shifted him a box that very much sounded like it was full of CD's.

"Who doesn't in Oxford?" Morse took the box off of the doctor and peeled back the tape. Yes. CD's, "It can stay."

"It'll fit," Strange was already wedging himself between boxes to hoist the bike out over everything else. Morse watched him a moment before his eyes drifted to Max who also seemed to be watching rather intently. It was hardly a feat of strength but Morse got an unexpected pang of something sour when the doctor watched Strange, big and broad and exuberant with his barrel chest and his thick tattooed arms and everything Morse was not. He was momentarily envious, not an unknown feeling, about a dozen things and nothing, so he turned away to tuck the box in his arms into the back of the vehicle.

Most of the transfer was unexciting. Everything had clearly not been touched since the early aughts and Strange and Debryn were not shy about their little jibes when they could. Morse was ever awkward and unused to anyone treating him as one of the boys. One of the crowd. In college he'd had to change himself, put on a face, try to like the things everyone else did and it still set him apart and got him cast aside. Easy acceptance was entirely new and unexpectedly mature and so he stumbled, repeatedly, through conversations and jokes.

After everything was neatly tucked in, bike included, they turned themselves around and headed back. There was a stop for pizza and beer at Strange's expense, and by the time the three of them were spread out in Morse's new flat he was in a much better mood after a meal and a drink. Morse made a point out of the pizza actually, bobbling in view of the doctor before he devoured it. _Yes, he did eat._

Max only smirked.

"Now what in the bloody hell is all this, Morse?" Strange was standing over a particularly large box full of flat black electronics. They were all roughly the size of VCRs but there were too many components to be reasonable.

"Oh!" The detective moved to crouch and hawk delicately over the box, the most animated he'd been since they'd started this, "My stereo."

"From what decade?!" Jim pulled the top piece out of the scrunched up newspaper packing it and looked at the front dials. "This is a turntable, matey!"

"Obviously," Morse snorted, "How else am I supposed to listen to my LPs?"

"You do know everything is digital now?" Max said helpfully, holding a beer and rocking on his feet beside the box as Strange pulled out another piece that appeared to be a dual deck cassette player. It was soon joined by a radio tuner that served as its own whole section.

"And I still have LP's, cassettes and-"

"Please don't say 8-track, Morse-" Max closed his eyes hopelessly.

"CD's," Morse scowled.

Strange laughed, "Dedicated to this junk, aren't you?" And Morse scowled further but the large constable gave a reassuring chuckle, "Each to their own. I collect ships. Models, you know, replicas. Not as much time anymore to work on them. When I was a kid it was spaceships, _Star Trek_ and _Star Wars_ and the like.."

"Oh? And where do you stand then Jim?" Max perked, "Trek or Wars?"

"Oh _Star Wars_ , no contest," Strange said with a hearty insistence. He was hoisting the pieces of the stereo out of the box as he talked about the superior space battles and the much more intriguing political plots. He also had some very definite opinions on the spacecraft, as well as the completely fabricated physics of both series.

"What about you, Doc?"

" _Star Trek_ ," Morse interjected without looking up from his electronics as he checked for the proper cords, "My money is on _Star Trek_."

Max cracked one of his rare smiles and gestured his agreement with a nod, "In one. Much better doctors! Padme certainly wouldn't have died in childbirth in the Federation. Broken heart, my arse. That's what happens when you have robots doing obstetrics."

Strange laughed and Morse's self satisfaction boosted his mood enough that he didn't even take offense when the pair of men mocked him mercilessly over his outdated television. It turned out that most of what he owned were books and music which made unpacking fairly straightforward. There was a small box of kitchen basics, dishes and the like, and another of personal objects that went straight to the bedroom and weren't for prying eyes. The flat had come minimally furnished so after they'd packed things onto the shelves and hooked up his electronics, the three men sat around with their beers and finished off the pizza to wind down.

Strange was on his phone, nursing the last bottle and Max had found a copy of _Leaves of Grass_ by Walt Whitman that he thumbed through. No bow-tie today, Morse had noted earlier, not for a manual labor trip, but he still seemed to be more stylish than Morse ever managed in a pair of oxfords and a cardigan.

"I used to have a copy of this," Max glanced up at Morse, "Lost it in the divorce."

"You're divorced?" Jim's attention was drawn from his phone very neatly with that.

"Just a figure of speech," Max looked bemused, glanced at Morse again, then down at the book.

Morse was overwhelmed with curiosity at what remained unsaid. The casual mention had been effortless, as if it was something Max had gotten used to saying, and he wondered anew about whatever romantic past that he was missing. Surely he must have one, they all did in some form or other, but the tattoo and the poetry - the distance he exuded.

Morse had the sudden urge to sit on the floor by his feet, lean back against him and have Max read to him. Maybe he would steal the book and read it himself, tucked against the doctor's knees, a hand in his hair, and needing nothing but the solid weight of him there.

_Stop this day and night with me, and you shall possess the origin of all poems.._

Strange's phone went off and Morse actually jolted physically from the reverie and the unexpected flutter of feeling. One glance at Max told him the other man had seen it in his face and he was reminded of the way the doctor had watched him across the pub that first night.

"Strange. Oh, hullo Pete. Yeah, 'round Morse's."

Jakes.

Strange looked between the doctor and Morse as he talked, "Nah, Dr. Debryn's here. Yeah. No, it's alright."

Morse didn't really want to know what Jakes was saying but he could feel his lips curl into a sneer of their own volition.

"Oh yeah? She got friends?" Jim was perking up. "Yeah sure. I'll tell them. Cheers."

Morse was already standing, gathering up the empties and trash and stuffing them into a bag as the spell had been broken.

"That was Jakes. He says we should come down the pub for a drink. He'll buy you one," Strange was standing and slipping his phone into his pocket, "A congrats on the flat."

Morse snorted. Jakes wasn't known for his pure intentions and his instinct was to say no, to shoo them out and finally settle in to put his stereo and speakers through their paces. But then as Strange got up to leave, so did Max. He'd closed the paperback and pushed himself to his feet.

"I could do for a pint," Morse agreed impulsively. The idea of willfully excluding himself had seemed suddenly intolerable.

Strange was pleased. Max was harder to read.

The doctor waggled the book, "Mind if I borrow this, Morse? I think I'd like to brush up. It may take a while for me to get it back to you though."

Walt Whitman had been on the tip of his tongue lately and so Morse smiled small, "Keep it. A gift."

Max looked surprised and Morse continued, "My mother told me never to lend books."

Max nodded at that, "She sounds like a wise woman."

"She was," He agreed and left it at that.

The pub wasn't crowded until Jakes arrived with his entourage but he was good on his word of buying Morse a pint. Strange was finally distracted enough to break away and chat up some girls. Morse found a spot in the corner, plopped himself, and watched the room as he took the room to breathe. He'd hit his quota of socializing for the day.

For all his annoyances he rather envied Jakes and Strange their easy time with people. Even Max was there by Strange's elbow talking to them about whatever topic they'd got onto this time. They all spoke to many subjects and even if they weren't experts, they seemed to have mastered a plethora of social skills that navigated the gaps in knowledge. Morse only ever seemed to know too much or nothing at all. He hadn't the finesse or maybe his mind drifted too much. Maybe he got too absorbed in the details or maybe he didn't pay enough attention to the things others did. Small talk felt menial and to suffer it for the sake of other's feelings or comfort was something he continued to attempt, but lacked a true care for. Even with people whom he considered friends, the few that stuck around since Oxford and the few he was making now, he felt as if he existed on the periphery. Maybe he was simply missing something inside. It wouldn't be the first time he'd thought so. He knew that most definitely he had no right to look over at them talking, look at Max chuckling along with the crowd, and feel a gnawing aimless envy that he wasn't one of them.

As if knowing he was being watched, Max met his eyes and in response he dropped his glance into his nearly empty pint. Before he knew it Max was settling next to him in a chair and he was vaguely aware of the man's foot bobbing against his own under the table as he settled. He felt a companionable warmth at the small gesture which was swiftly ruined by Jakes appearing table-side with a casual lean. He slid another pint across to Morse.

"What's this?" Morse looked up at him, "You already bought me one."

"Oh that was your congratulation pint," He smirked wide, "This is your sympathy pint. After the rough week, lad. False arrest and general duties?"

Morse's gritted his teeth and he could feel Max glance at him.

"Chin up, champ!" Jakes chuckled and disappeared.

Max watched him go before turning to Morse with a lift of his brows, "Not doing any better with Mr. Bright then?"

Morse answered by taking the free pint and drinking it down very quickly. It was fast enough to immediately go to his head. "Mistakes were made," was all he said.

"Well you know what they say about hindsight.." Max finished his own drink and shifted. He checked his phone for the time.

“ _'I have no desire to suffer twice, in reality and then in retrospect.'_ "

"Sophocles. What a ray of bloody sunshine you are, Morse," Max smirked and shook his head, "I'm heading out. Do you need a lift?"

Morse didn't sense any ulterior motives, even if his mind went there, and after another glance at the social group by the bar he nodded.

Max called out to Strange, made sure he didn't need a way home, and Morse signaled that he was taking the ride before the pair of them slipped out onto the street.

"Thanks for this," Morse didn't say it until they were driving. That last pint had hit him harder than he expected on top of the few bottles they'd had in his flat.

"For what exactly, a ride? This seems par for the course with you," Max's eyes darted to him in the mirror.

"Getting me the lead on the flat. Helping me move. Get my things out of storage-"

"You should really be thanking Strange for that," Max's lips thinned and pursed, "Which I doubt you will do. He's a good bloke and I think a good friend to have around the station."

"Yeah, he's a decent sort I suppose," That previous nag of jealousy came back. It was loose and aimless and sunk into his beer filled belly and dissolved quickly. "Popular, anyway."

"Because he knows how to talk to people and, I expect, when to shut up and take orders."

No, Morse had never been good at orders.

"He's also already gunning for sergeant. You weren't paying attention to the conversation, but he's deep into studying for a promotion."

Morse knew he was supposed to care and had, in fact, gotten all the study materials together himself since his relegation to general duties. He knew he had to do more to cement his position in the department and at the very least he needed to be a sergeant if he hoped to work with Inspector Thursday in a more permanent capacity. Unfortunately, right now, the last thing he wanted to hear about was how friendly, popular and ambitious Jim Strange was.

Morse didn't realize he'd closed his eyes until the Range Rover had stopped and Max tapped his knee to stir him. He didn't open his eyes immediately but his hand crept out to catch the prodding fingers, which stilled motionless in his grasp before pulling away.

Morse took a deep breath, yawned, and lifted his head. He watched Max, weighed his options, and once more made the selfish move. He leaned an elbow on the console and tilted his head towards the doctor, "Do you want to come up?"

Max's brows rose, "I've already spent the day rummaging through your belongings. I think it's rather ruined the mystery..."

Morse's head dropped with a smile.

"I shouldn't," Max said more seriously, "I've plans tomorrow."

Morse's lips curled in an expression he hoped was enticing, "Shouldn't or won't?"

Max looked at him again with that furrow of brow that said he was thinking and then after a pause, leaned to meet the detective half way and brushed a very fleeting kiss across his lips. It was so delicate and quick that Morse found himself chasing it when Max leaned back. The slow tug of affection made it hard to want to let him go.

"Won't."

The detective lingered with a quiet look, "What sort of plans?"

Max gave him a harder one, " _Plans_. Go in, Morse. Get some sleep."

Morse flashed him a grin then and he saw the doctor's expression soften just enough to satisfy himself. He finally slipped out of the car, "G'night, Max."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _This chapter was always intended to be a rather light moment before we get into drama. Consider this to be post-Girl and pre-Fugue.._
> 
> _Which means someone gets stabbed next chapter ;D_
> 
> _I really wanted a naval-tattooed Jim Strange ;D_


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set in and around S01E02 - Fugue.  
> My favorite episode by the way.

_Shit. Shit. Shit._

He'd been stabbed.

There was blood. His blood

_Shit. Bloody. Fucking..._

For all his treasured vocabulary, the only words Morse's mind could formulate as he looked at his red-slicked fingers and the blood soaking slowly through his shirt was a string of base profanity. There was also the delayed awareness that he was yelling. It was a sort of keening cry of shock and pain and as the blood spread quickly across the white linen. Morse writhed against the stone stairs he didn't remember collapsing upon as if he could get away from it's creep. The wound hurt, very much so, but the sight of blood was somehow worse.

It was his. _Sanguis_. Exiting his body. It was supposed to be _in_ his body. Clearly.

"Morse!" Strange was over him, already pressing something to the bleeding. He yelled more.

_It hurt._

"I know it hurts, matey, you're alright. Call an ambulance!" Strange bellowed to one of his fellow uniforms who was reaching for his radio.

"No! No ambulance-" Morse gasped. His head was swimming and he inhaled a steadying breath.

He'd been stabbed.

The killer! They had to- "He's getting away! C-canvas the-" Morse breathed and grabbed Strange, "Just call Max. No emergency room. Just-"

He must have swooned momentarily. Morse was vaguely aware of being carried in a pair of steady arms before his eyes fluttered open and he was in a squad car being told to hold a compress to his side and Strange was taking up behind the wheel. Soon they were hobbling into the hospital and Max was there behind a set of swinging doors with an expression of both irritation and concern as they hoisted him onto a table.

"I've got him, Constable," Max snapped on rubber gloves before he began to peel fabric away to look at the slash, "Call Inspector Thursday and tell him everything is under control. Morse won't be dying today. Despite the hysterics, it appears to be more painful than deadly. Sound and fury."

Morse had his head thrown back towards the ceiling and his eyes closed. He resented the implication that being attacked and knifed and bleeding out qualified as hysterics and he would have said so if lifting his head and catching sight of his own blood didn't make him queasy.

"Shirt off, Morse."

Morse opened his eyes to focus on the doctor's face. Strange was gone and Max had on scrubs and a lab coat and it reminded him of that morning with the soft blue fabrics and little wire glasses and unstyled hair...

"Morse!" The doctor repeated himself. He looked dour and impatient.

Morse's fingers were shaky and pale when he finally moved in what felt like slow motion to undo his shirt buttons but seeing the blood again made him pause and exhale with a huff, an act that had his side pull with acute pain.

" _Bugger all_. I'll do it," Max muttered and took over. He helped the man out of both his jacket and shirt with swift and careful precision. There were only the smallest winces and cries from Morse as he twisted his shoulders free of the fabric. Next came his vest up and over his head. The slice was freshly oozing and his pale back had a few red scrapes from when he'd fallen.

"But you're so good at undressing me," Morse said with a flash of a pained smile that didn't reach his eyes. The poor humor was as much for him as it was for Max but he was met with only an exasperated sound from the doctor.

"You don't need to get yourself sliced and diced as an excuse to flirt with me, Morse. Hold that on the wound. Don't look at it! I'm not scraping you off of the tiles again. Just hold it there," Even with playful retort, Max's usual drawl was all business. He put something in Morse's hand and pressed it to the proper spot. The doctor didn't move away until he was sure that it was held firmly in place.

"You should have gone to A&E."

"I don't like hospitals," Morse muttered, "Or-"

"-doctors?" Max snorted and was back, moving away the man's hand so he could irrigate the wound. It was followed by something cold and stinging that Morse couldn't see.

"You know what I mean," Morse winced and stared resolutely ahead.

"No, I'm sure that I don't seeing as you are sitting in a hospital right this moment under the care of a practicing physician. Unless, of course, all my years of schooling were some sort of elaborate ruse. Shall I add nosocomephobia or latrophobia to your growing list? I can always add them to your medical file. Maybe I'll indulge my curiosity and end the mystery of your first name…"

"There's no time for all that, is what I mean!" Morse snapped insistently. He was positive Max would have kept talking if he hadn't interrupted him. The doctor, clearly poking and prodding at his sensibilities, was by way of annoyance taking Morse's mind away from the fact that _dear god he'd been stabbed._ It was effective, "There's a killer on the loose."

The doctor sucked his cheeks and rocked on his toes with a light bounce before he leaned down to business again, "It's not too deep, thankfully..."

Feeling like he was in safe hands allowed Morse to let his mind return to the case and veer away from the reality of his injury. He retraced his steps back through the stacks to see if he could remember anything about the attacker. It was likely a man by the build and the strength but he hadn't seen any discernible features in the dark. He twinged as the stitching commenced and Morse tried to focus on the evidence and the clues to put aside the warm prickling pain. Perhaps they could go over the belongings left behind, but he was sure their clever killer wouldn't leave anything identifying. Perhaps they had left another riddle or anagram behind in the library..?

"Clean slice like this'll be a bugger to knit," Max said aloud again, "It's far better gashing yourself on something jagged."

Morse couldn't help an eye roll. He felt more like himself as the seconds ticked by and Max's renewed needling pulled him away from being sorry for himself or thinking about where he'd went wrong, "I'll bear that in mind the next time I chase a lunatic under the Bodleian."

" _Oh, the places you'll go.._ " Max glanced up at Morse over his glasses and Morse cut him a look but let him continue. "What led you there?"

"An anagram," He winced again and finally dared a look down. He was glad not to see his own life's essence seeping out everywhere, "Double anagram actually."

Max finished and straightened himself out. The stitches were cleaned with antiseptic again and Morse's skin was once more gently wiped. He covered the wound in a gauze bandage and secured it. It was a tricky spot as far as moving went and there was a strong chance he'd pull them if he wasn't careful.

"No alibi err badly. Near by libra idol," Morse looked at the bandage as best he could as Max moved away. He'd stepped towards some shelving, pulled open a bottom cabinet door, and produced a bottle and two shot glasses, "Both phrases use the same letters."

"Bodleian Library!" Max sounded mildly impressed as he set down a pair of shot glasses and poured them each a dose of brown liquor.

Morse lifted his with a 'Cheers' and slung it back.

"To your health, surely," Max gave him a pointed look and drank down his own with a nose wrinkle and an _'Ah!'_ Then he took the glasses and set them away, "Now it's going to be tight and tender for the next few days."

Morse looked like he was going to be cheeky.

"So _behave_ , Morse," Max warned. He stepped close to help him down and Morse curled his arm around the doctor's shoulders as he slid from the tabletop, "I've said it before and I'll say it again: Bedrest."

Even on his feet he kept his arm around the Max's shoulders until the doctor moved away to fetch Morse's discarded shirts. They were both ripped and covered in blood, "My finest broderie anglaise notwithstanding, don't exert yourself."

Morse frowned at his clothing and walked to the waste basket to toss his ruined vest in, "The girl's still missing. I've got to get back."

Max watched him a moment and his eyes flashed over Morse's bare torso with a strange nervousness before he stepped closer, between him and the door, and his voice dropped, "Morse."

The soft tone felt so very intimate that Morse couldn't help freezing where he stood. Max was being cautious but the worry in him felt clear.

"If your attacker had decided to stab and not slash," The doctor tensed as he picked his words carefully. His posture had tightened and the hands at his sides pumped anxiously in a way that Morse now recognized as restraint, "I'd presently be getting a bit more acquainted with your anatomy than either of us may care for."

Bawdy insinuations about one another's anatomy fluttered only briefly through his mind before the image of his own corpse laid out on a morgue table cemented rather terrifyingly in the forefront of his brain. It had not dawned on Morse wholly until that precise moment that he could have been killed. They'd have called Max, not to bandage a foolish constable, but to bag and tag one. He'd have been off to the Bodleian to poke around at his corpse, to analyze the scene, to diagnostically catalog his murder, and to rummage through his pockets and bag up the last few items his living hands had ever held. 

A ripple of tension condensed inside Morse's rib cage, a strain of emotion that felt tangible and heavy and had him taking a deep breath as if it would release even an iota of the constriction. He didn't have an explanation or any soothing words. He would never let a suspect go or leave the puzzle unsolved if he could help it. Foolish? Probably. Dangerous? Absolutely. He didn't want to die, but what else did he have aside from this?

Max watched him, near unreadable in the dragging silent moment and Morse could feel emotion crawling up his throat and words nearly forming on his tongue. He could taste the start of them, the build of some unformulated confession or apology, but Max finally turned away and the spell was broken.

"Rather not be heaving your tripes into a tray, if it's all the same," The doctor's tone was nearly back to the usual. He moved to that cabinet once more and this time produced a grey t-shirt that he tossed and Morse caught. It was soft with age and he knew immediately that it was one of the doctor's own, "Not just yet at least."

The shirt was a size too big but when Morse pulled the collar over his head he picked up the smell of detergent, the faint antiseptic tinge of the hospital and that particular smell, heady and unforgettable, that was very distinctly Max. The tense knot in his chest unravelled in an instant and was replaced with something warm and tempting that he wasn't in the right place to pay mind to.

Morse fished out his mobile and phoned Thursday. He put on his diligent officer voice and reassured his governor that he was alright, "Just a scratch." Strange would be back around for him in a few minutes as he was still in the area.

Max moved about and cut the lights, put things away, and collected his belongings in preparation to go. They walked out to the street together and as Strange was pulling up, Max was palming his keys.

"I don't like this, Morse, a serial killer who has it out for you," Max spoke low as he rolled the key fob over and over in his fingers and stared at the approaching car and not Morse himself, " _Absit omen_."

Strange honked and Max leaned to give him a small wave.

Morse found himself once more without a proper rebuttal. He was secretly terrified, deep in the heart of him, about this killer's attention on him. As disgusting and dangerous as it was to play this tailor-made game, they had a little girl to get back to her family and he knew very well that this opera of crime was far from concluded.

"I'll text you... when this is all finished," It was the closest thing to a promise that Morse could make.

He didn't keep it.

Mason Gull's revenge scheme was destined to have a tragic end. They had found and saved the girl but at the cost of another gruesome death. They couldn't have stopped it, well dead before the aqua vitae, Max had said, but it didn't make the loss any less difficult. The case had been getting out of their hands. His grand and culminating effort had targeted Inspector Thursday and in the process nearly killed them both. Morse had fallen into every trap set for him, much to his lingering shame.

Hours after the killer was hauled off of an Oxford roof in handcuffs, hours after Morse had been a hair's breadth from losing his mentor, hours after he'd limped down too many flights of stairs and aggravated his fresh wound, he lay in his narrow bed in his sparse apartment in an oversized grey t-shirt and he stared at the ceiling in silence.

Gull had struck at the heart of him. He'd used and twisted his knowledge and intelligence and had the gall to imply that they were the same. Morse had thought he'd found some peace here in Oxford, some small place with a group that perhaps he could call his own. He'd felt it even through work troubles, he'd felt it over beers and pizza, he'd felt it at a dinner table among family, and then in the blink of an eye he'd almost lost it.

A sudden knock at the door cut through the grim silence and had Morse nearly jumping out of his skin. An irrational part of his mind wanted to scrabble away, convinced there was still some lingering threat but he was halfway through a bottle of whiskey and even if the mind was reactive, the body was not willing.

By the time Morse answered the door there had been a second jarring knock. He pulled it open with glassy hooded eyes and found Max Debryn standing there looking back at him with an unadulterated look of quiet anger. The doctor seemed to have a moment, a flash of relief, but the cloud of irritation quickly rolled back over him again.

"Your phone is going to voicemail," He said simply.

"Is it?" Morse hadn't thought about his phone in hours. He moved aside to let Max in and fuzzily acknowledged him holding his medical bag and being out of his work clothes. What time was it? Had Thursday called him over? Why was he here exactly?

Max set his bag down on a chair, picked up the whiskey bottle, and sniffed it. He proceeded to pour himself a measure into the glass Morse had been using and drink it down with a grimace.

It was cheap.

"When was the last time you slept?" Max seemed to be reigning in a lecture. He picked up Morse's phone, which was sitting out and very clearly dead, and plugged it into the charging port less than an inch away.

"Yesterday? And before that I dozed off at the Thursday's..."

"After being awake the entire day previous, I'm sure, and losing a half decent amount of blood," Max's frustration was an unfocused growl, "then off for rooftop fisticuffs?"

"Thursday was in danger!" Morse snapped then, a sizzle of defensive energy that ate itself up as quickly as it came and left him feeling freshly exhausted.

"I know!" Debryn grunted with frustration. He had to know there had been no choice in what happened and that it could have gone much worse. The doctor's irritation sputtered out weakly and he sighed, "Sit down, Morse. Better yet, lay down, and let me take a look at your stitches."

Morse obediently did as he was told which was a sure sign something was wrong, but his original assumption about Debryn's force of will only reinforced itself again and again. In the state he was in now he couldn't have denied Max if he tried. He wavered on his feet as he made for the bed and his head swam. The detective reached out an arm to Max for balance before he turned and nearly fell into the mattress. He hadn't let go and the doctor was tugged roughly to the bedside.

"Stay," Morse let out a sigh to be horizontal again. He held fast on Max's forearm and his fingers rubbed lightly over the skin where a particular tattoo lay. It was an impulsive request, more of a thought he hadn't meant to say aloud, but Morse's filters didn't seem to be working properly under the current conditions.

"No," Max didn't yank himself loose. Instead he shifted to sit on the edge of the bed and turned his arm in a more comfortable angle.

"A while?" Morse let him go.

"A bit," Max agreed, "Now let me check your stitches."

Morse closed his eyes and shifted as the t-shirt was pulled up. He rolled cooperatively onto his other side and willed the exhaustion to finally take over. Even with his body warm and loose from alcohol, even with his mental capacities willfully crippled, his mind railed against relaxation.

"You haven't eaten, have you?" Max was a broken record and by his expression, getting tired of the same questions.

"I don't have anything."

"I'm frankly amazed that you have lived this long, Morse," Max put on a fresh bandage, pulled the shirt down, and gave Morse a tap to indicate he could turn back over, "There are yogis in India who can subsist on only air and sunlight. I wasn't aware the English breed could rely entirely on alcohol and misery."

Morse gave a displeased sound but didn't argue. He simple rolled onto his back and watched Max who had taken up his phone with the usual disappointed frown. Morse watched him a moment before he reached out a hand to tap the man's knee. The doctor didn't look up until he was finished thumbing through whatever it was.

"Lay with me," Morse lacked the capacity for subterfuge. He was of the mind that he needed to say and ask exactly what he wanted or it would come out all wrong.

"You are very drunk, Morse."

"Just to sit, Max. Just sit with me," He couldn't hide the pleading edge to his voice. He'd been laying here in silence alone and hadn't realized how needy he was for contact until the doctor had shown up.

"At least until the food comes," Max agreed and slid up until his back was against the wall and he could stretch out his legs.

"Food?" Morse shifted and settled against Max's side. His head tucked against the man's chest, slid down to his stomach, and after a few moments of readjustment had him with his head in the doctor's lap.

"Yes, entrenched in the dark ages as you are, they do have apps for that now," Max's hand tentatively rested on Morse's head, and then with little to be done for it, his fingers combed idly through his auburn waves, "I'm not letting you rest on your laurels with 'I don't have anything'."

Morse closed his eyes. He'd suffer the admonishment for this, this simply existing together, with Max unknowingly sloughing layers of anxiety away with every brush of his fingers. The rhythm of it was soothing and as silence settled in he felt for the first time that the danger had passed. The feeling of loneliness wasn't so crushing this way and if they didn't talk about it, they could simply have it without complication.

"You were supposed to text me," Max said so softly it was nearly lost in the quiet.

"Hell," Morse hissed. He'd forgotten. The tiny broken commitment felt strangely important, like he'd failed a test.

"Though the second-hand story was rather exciting," Max looked down at him. 

"Still on general duties," Morse remembered snidely as he turned his face more firmly into Max's hip and stomach. The initial upset, the sting of tears from that revelation, was gone and now replaced with a simmering anger. He didn't want to think of the rooftop anymore. There had been nothing brave about it. The image of Thursday's hands trembling around the remains of his pipe was still burned into the back of his eyelids. He'd never seen him so shaken, "I'm going to go for the sergeant's."

It was an adequate derailment.

"Good luck," Max said quietly and then after a pause gave an slightly awkward offer, "If you need anything... Help."

Morse grunted noncommittally and closed his eyes again. He thought several very distinct things simultaneously. The first was how little he cared about a promotion right now. The second was that Max smelled very nice. The third was that very suddenly the quiet of his flat was bothering him.

He'd been here in silence all night. Thursday had told him to go home and listen to something. Anything would have done. To blast it. To rattle the windows with it if he had to.

He hadn't. He couldn't.

Morse was afraid. He was afraid that Gull was right. He was afraid that his music had been sullied. He was afraid to find out that the only thing that gave him comfort just didn't anymore. He couldn't bear to take the chance and lose. How could he play his favorite recordings if they inadvertently drudged up memories of those bodies, of Thursday's brush with death, of his own? Gull had tried to strip him of everything, even his comforts.

"To be clever is to be alone," Morse murmured.

"Pardon?" Max looked down at him, fingers still brushing idly through the man's hair.

"Gull said it to me. He said we were the same. He said _'To be clever is to be alone.'_ What do you say to that?"

As Max thought on it, a finger traced the shell of Morse's ear idly, "Do you feel alone?"

Morse was both distracted and soothed by the touch and he smiled small for the first time in days. When his answer came it was honest, grounded very firmly in this single moment, "No."

"And I'm not alone," Max looked down at him in a private and mutual acknowledgment. He just seemed to notice what he was doing to Morse's ear and went back idle petting instead, "So it sounds to me as if you're worried about the ravings of a lunatic psychopath."

Morse snorted. It sounded so simple when someone else said it.

"What did Inspector Thursday have to say about it?" There was a gentle shifting sound and Morse looked up to find Max had leaned his head back and closed his eyes as he asked the question.

"He told me to go home and put some music on. Loud as it would go.." Morse sighed.

"Why didn't you?" Max lifted his head curiously.

"I couldn't decide what to play," he lied.

Max checked his phone for the time or the food and put it down again, "What's in the stereo now?"

It took Morse some concerted effort to get the mental wheels to clunk and slog into motion, "Aida."

"Pavarotti?"

"Domingo," He yawned.

"As good as any."

As good as any? They would definitely be arguing tenors later.

Morse was a bit struck at how Max's reply was so near what Thursday had said to him. Providence or circumstance, he couldn't ignore it.

 _'Music?'_ It was more than that but he could let it be, _'I suppose music is as good as anything.'_

Max had picked up the stereo remote by the bed and hit play. The opening strains soon filled the apartment and Morse knew immediately he should have done this hours ago. He knew immediately that Thursday had been right. Max was also right: he'd been overly caught up in the words of a madman.

Morse closed his eyes and let the music wash over him. He let Max's warmth go through him. His scent surround him. The rhythm of hands in his hair pulled him gently away. Morse finally, _finally_ , yawned.

"Turn it up, will you?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may have played up Morse's stabbing reaction a bit but its more fun that way.  
> nosocomephobia - extreme fear of hospitals  
> latrophobia - fear of treatment centers and doctors
> 
> Honestly the stitch-up scene is so hella gay in the show that I didn't really want to sully most of the lines by changing them.  
> Max quotes some Shakespeare and some Dr. Seuss. I also decided he's a big Pavarotti fan.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which it's not clear that Max Debryn knows what normal friendship is.
> 
> Leads us through the events of S01E03 - Rocket.

It was amazing how quickly Morse had fallen asleep when put in the right position to do so. _Aida_ had barely been into the first act when the head in Max's lap had sagged with the familiar weight of unconsciousness. He'd left him there, tucked into his bed with the music turned low and a takeaway order pinned with a note of 'EAT!' waiting for when he woke up. In the morning there had been a text waiting, an _'M: IOU 1 dinner'_ and while it tooled pleasantly around in his mind that he may actually like that, Max put no weight in any promise from the detective.

It had been the fading days of summer when he'd met Morse. The warm weather had dug itself in, stuck around as long as possible before the autumn chill took over and students flooded Oxford in time for the start of term. Fall was well on its way, even if the weather hadn't cooperated and there had been the usual charge in the air that accompanied the time of year. Max had always loved fall. Crisp air and the burn of autumnal colors and the universal acceptance of wearing layers. He hadn't been a student for a very long time but the energetic buzz was contagious and always made him pleasantly reminiscent. It was easy to glamorize the college years when you were done with the stress of them.

When he'd approached Morse in the pub he had been riding the wave of that good mood and had distant thoughts that Morse reminded him of someone who used to be very close to him. They didn't look alike or sound alike but there was something in the bearing, in the way he held himself and reacted to things, in the way he felt singular and seperate from the rest of society despite his best efforts to try and disappear into it. Perhaps it had just been Max's own mind or perhaps it was just the way of attraction to seek out reason and explanation when things felt striking and immediate.

Max held no delusions. A one night stand wasn't a surrogate for a long lost love or some effort to bandage a broken heart. A man with the cheekbones and brood more suited for an editorial spread than a pub and one too many standards for his ale was not a crutch for Max to hobble through his loneliness with. He'd taken him home despite his misgivings because of the way it made him feel. There was some electric spark when they touched and he couldn't resist when the invitation for them to leave together was whispered into his ear. Max wasn't so resigned to a life alone that he couldn't feel rare chemistry when it struck. How long had it been since he'd even looked at anyone? How long since anyone looked back?

Besides the underlying attraction, there was the beer and the snark and the poetry. Combined with fantastic sex, Max didn't allow himself to be concerned that the young man with no provided first name and a questionable living situation had, through small slips of speech, revealed himself to not be the Oxford scholar he claimed. They'd met, they'd had a good time, and then parted with lingering desire but no promises of anything more. Everything from the awkwardness in the morning to the goodbye kiss was so blessedly _normal_ , but not Max's normal. 'Normal' wasn't ever a word used to describe him in his life and thus, it had been a lovely and fleeting social play, a fun role to take up for an evening and he had no regrets.

To find that Morse was the contentious and much rumored new constable working under Inspector Thursday had some wry irony in it. It turned out that when you had two men who were as far from normal as possible, the likelihood that things went smoothly and according to plan between them was nonexistent. Discovering they were colleagues did not change their attraction either, but Max was sure he'd have favored Morse regardless. They simply operated on similar wavelengths and Morse was surely the oddest policeman he'd ever met. Max had been doing his best to keep it friendly as the weeks went by but it wasn't foolproof. The pair of them seemed to very easily fall in together. It turned out that Morse was the type of friend who came over late at night, whispered poetry in his ear and invaded his showers. He was the type of friend who came by to question his life over ice cream and wine and who begged him to stay, just for the company and to feel safe enough to sleep. None of his other friends asked to spend the night just to be held. None of his other friends set his insides spinning because they gave him looks, private and quiet, that made him feel like something worth looking at. None of his other friends seemed so quiet and beautiful that at moments it struck him completely dumb.

Max wasn't fool enough to think this was usual, even if he was hardly an expert on relationships of any kind. The softer aspects of personal interaction were sometimes lacking with him and he knew it. He could deal with people in a medical capacity, as much as was necessary, and he tried to be conscientious of formality when it came to other's feelings. He'd learned when to listen and when to talk, but often the nuances felt rather clumsy and pandering. As a younger man he'd stumbled through love and heartbreak as ungracefully as he was sure everyone did but as he'd gotten older it turned out to be simpler to not bother with it at all. Most friendships were easy. They could be loose and noncommittal from jump street. They could be rough or distant or clashing and still work. Anything more than that became too much of a battle of time and attention.

Here in Oxford those battles were of wit and intelligence and ego and it made things like the dating scene into something competitive and patronising and rife with posturing masculinity. Max didn't have the time or the care for any of that nonsense and thus, didn't make any. Everyone made sacrifices as they chose their paths in life and his choice had been to bypass complicated personal entanglements entirely. He'd instead achieved a comfortable lifestyle that many could only wish for. He could go on vacations where he wanted and enjoy concerts when he liked and eat in any restaurant that struck his whim and the only cost was that sometimes, very rare and quiet sometimes, Max longed privately to be doing those things with someone else.

And here was Morse, so imminently and persistently _there_. A man who chased what he wanted at breakneck speed with little thought to the world around him or the consequences. Max had seen him weep over the beautiful and tragic, seen him flare with rage at his superiors, and seen him rush headlong into danger with little thought to his own safety. Max could only assume he handled his personal relationships much the same way. Until the inevitable end came he could only see that singular goal, the person right in front of him, the suspect or the clue, and damn the danger and the odds and any thoughts besides. Max almost envied that focus of his, so concentrated that it bordered on bullheaded compulsion. It made Max want to test it, to push it, to see how how much he could steal for his own. Morse brought out a foolishness in himself, a selfishness, an enjoyment in clashing with him and the longer he knew him the more Max found himself battling impulses that were an affront to his own long held principals.

And then the bloody man had gone ahead and gotten himself attacked.

 _'It's Morse. He's been stabbed,'_ The breathless call from Constable Strange had been like being doused in cold water and for that single second Max had found himself plunged into fear of the worst. Morse's own startled screaming a moment later, muffled in the background, had pulled him out of it and dragged the doctor back into the realm of logic, reason and professionalism. If he was yelling that much, he wasn't going to be dying any time soon.

But that icy dread stuck with him.

That black feeling clung to his bones long after he sent the constable back out onto the trail with words of concern, a stitch-job and a prayer. Max found himself clinging foolishly to a promise that they would talk when all was said and done but as the case dragged on, second by second and day by day, with each new body he found himself haunted by imaginary scenarios of a shadowy figure finishing Morse off. With every phone call came a clawing, chilly flash of dread that the next body would be a policeman.

The news of Gull's arrest spread like wildfire but there had been little relief for Max. He'd needed it, needed to hear there were no more gruesome fatalities coming. No more operatic slaughter and no more danger for their boys in blue. No more danger for Morse or Thursday, but when all was said and done the awaited relief didn't come. Neither did the promised text from Morse. No word. No call.

Max convinced himself that it was natural for him to be concerned. He'd convinced himself that he didn't care outside of what one would for a friend. He'd even convinced himself that it was completely acceptable to reach out on his own, if only to see how the stitches were faring after a rooftop climb. It wasn't like him to bother with a real old fashioned phone call but for the very reasonable reasons he'd concocted in his own mind, it was an acceptable acquiescence to his own rules. And when the call went straight to a default robotic voicemail greeting Max found himself blinded by a flaring, selfish anger. Common sense told him this wasn't personal and his logic told him it was foolish to be angry at all, but the rise of irritation overruled them and rage was what had him grabbing his car keys and his bag. It was what had him charging over to Morse's flat knowing it was past an acceptable hour. The whole drive over all he could think of was the gall of the other man, at his irresponsibility and lack of thought.

_Thought about what, Max?_

About himself. About his injury.

About him. Had he thought about him?

_Why would he, Max?_

By the time he saw Morse face to face his anger died, lame and sputtering. The other man was pale and drawn and exhausted. He was drunk. He could barely stand. He probably didn't even realize that stringing more than a few words together seemed like a daunting task. Max's rage petered out and was replaced rather immediately with a gut-deep guilt, frustration and embarrassment. Any blind confidence he may have bolstered had also dissolved away. Morse had been through the wars and wasn't in any state for anyone's feelings but his own. Max folded to it. The man needed a friend, not a lecture. The sort of friend who got too much pleasure in seeing Morse in one of his own t-shirts. The sort of friend who stayed and ran their hands through his hair to help him sleep. The sort of friend who reassured him that he wasn't alone. Someone who fretted over if he ate, bought him dinner, and pressed a kiss to his forehead before slipping out like a thief in the night.

They didn't talk about it. They never did. It wasn't a secret, but instead it felt like this was usual for them. They saw each other at work and texted small things of interest to one another if they cropped up. At crime scenes each was as effectively insufferable as always and there was a very strictly maintained line between work and home. It was easier than expected and the only explanation Max could come up with was that they were both simply consummate professionals. The IOU for dinner was nearly forgotten when the next big case hit, multiple bodies in the wake of a royal visit. Tensions were high and Mr. Bright was a horror of stubborn authority but Morse and Thursday were clever and had managed to solve a cold case in addition to the one at hand.

Jim Strange was happy to tell the tale round the pub afterwards, about the ruse he'd helped pull to lure out the killer's confession and what a piece of scum the bloke was who'd done it. Morse had long gone off to take his governor home and hadn't come back to rejoin them so the lads were taking full advantage.

"Probably called round to that girl," Jakes loved his gossip, especially about Morse, "That secretary. Some college friend of his. She was throwing it at him and Thursday had him work the angle," His smile was telling.

"You wouldn't know by looking at him," Strange this time, "But I think he does alright, ya know, on that front. Must be nice."

Max registered it with a detached awareness. His legs twitched to leave and his skin buzzed in a way that made him want to crawl out of it, but the feeling was fast and fleeting and like a snap of fingers, it was gone and he remembered what it was.

Jealousy.

Max found himself in the driver's seat of his vehicle as he waited for his feelings to trip over themselves enough to catch up with his mind. Jealousy, he posited, was foolish. A tumble, a wank and a few softer moments, didn't make Morse his. He owed him nothing and was free to do as he pleased with whomever he pleased. Logic disseminated the problem into the plain conclusion that they were nothing more than friends and whatever foolish and long buried emotions the constable was surfacing in himself were simply his own problem to deal with.

Care. Terror. Worry. Anger. Jealousy.

All of Max's carefully pruned and useless feelings, trimmed away like dry dead things a long time ago and carefully maintained and restrained and curated, had returned fuller and with more impact than he could have predicted. It getting out of hand if he was sitting here stewing in his car like a slighted side piece. In Max's agitated mind he only had two options at this juncture: embrace or deny. Denial was familiar, probably too familiar, so perhaps it was time for the other path. Max was going to recklessly cave for his own sake. If he was going to feel like a stupid fool, he may as well act the part and get something out of it.

The doctor pulled out his phone and tapped out a text.

> [ busy tonight? fancy a nightcap at mine? ]

The phone was immediately tossed like an offensive thing into the passenger seat and Max hadn't the spine to check for a response until he was parked outside his own front door.

> **M** [ be over in a bit. ]
> 
>     [ 18 minutes. ]

Max couldn't help a laugh at the precision of the estimation and felt some of his own melodrama rush out with it. Morse didn't know what a diva he was being and he reminded himself that if all else failed, they _were_ friends.

When the knock on his door finally came, Max checked the time stamp on the message and clucked his tongue in disappointment as he answered.

"That was twenty minutes, Morse…" He drawled dispassionately and tapped his wrist with a head shake.

Morse's lips pursed and curled, "Were you timing me?"

"When you respond with such specificity, absolutely. I will take you to task," Max finally backed up enough to let him in and Morse followed and closed up behind him. Having turned his back, Max registered the sound of the lock clicking and the rustle of his mackintosh being hung by the door. Morse seemed to have caught on to ditching his shoes in the foyer and by the time he was joining Max in the kitchen, there was already a drink waiting for him on the island.

Morse was out of his suit and tie and Max had almost forgotten what a different entity he could be away from work. The younger man seemed to make a precise effort to appear plain, but was still striking and lean and golden, even in a simple ruby colored jumper and jeans. This was the first time that he'd had the man over with a straightforward invitation at a decent hour and by Morse's pleased expression, he was realizing that too.

"What's this?" Morse looked down at the amber concoction in the glass waiting on the counter, "No, wait, don't tell me."

Max smirked and looked over his glasses as he braced his palms against the counter.

"A Posh," Morse made an amused but disgusted face, disgusted that he'd said the name aloud and that it was in his hand and that he was about to drink it.

"Don't knock it until you've tried it," Max took a sip of his own and then gestured for Morse to do the same. He was always happy to bully the other man into things outside of his comfort zone. He just wasn't sure exactly why Morse always seemed a bit more willing to comply if Max said so.

"Is that peach in there?" Morse's brow furrowed after he finally took a taste. His face quickly smoothed, "And citrus. It's not bad actually."

"I don't _do_ bad, Morse," Max said plainly.

While Morse was casual and showered and out of his work clothes, Max was not. He'd gone from the hospital to the pub and straight home so he took the opportunity now to loosen his bow-tie but found himself intercepted by Morse. For all of Max's original intentions and what he imagined was implied by the invitation, he remained surprised at how interested and overt Morse could be when they were alone.

"May I?" Morse had stopped his hands and his expression and low tone asked for more than just permission with the tie.

"Yes," Max breathed and for the first time there was no hesitation. He felt the bow loosened under his raised chin before he was tugged forward by the tie ends into a slow and welcome kiss. Max felt it head to toe, an electric reminder of what he'd been missing. The cool tinge of alcohol on both of their lips made him think of that first night together and he savored it. Max didn't even realize he'd lifted on his toes until they broke apart and his hand was resting against the curve of Morse's neck and brushing a thumb slowly across his clavicle. Morse held him tight and close by the ends of his tie and searched his face. All of Max's poorly formed ideas of selfish and petty pleasure fell apart around him when Morse flashed a rare and fleeting smile. He slid the tie free, pecked him again (as if it were the easiest and most casual of actions) and finally stepped away to his drink.

Max was sure that not everyone got smiles like that and discovered, very abruptly, that he couldn't bear to think that they might. He sunk to his heels with a slow exhale. So much for the best laid plans...

"What's behind the house?" Morse had decided that it was time to explore the bits of the living space he hadn't bothered with before. The detective hovered curiously by the back door and peered into a mudroom that he'd never seen before.

"Small patch, not much more," Max began to roll up his sleeves and caught Morse watching each fold and slide of fabric with interest, "I've always planned on doing something with it but never found the time. Tending to living things isn't exactly my forte. I could always plant a tree. That should have minimal maintenance."

Morse's eyes finally shifted to his face and he detected a hint of interrogation in the questioning tilt of his head, "Not much of a nurturer? Is that why you went with pathology?"

This certainly wasn't a line of inquiry that Max was in the mood for, "Am I not adequate enough at my job that I should be doing something else? I know we're all one step behind the illustrious Thames Valley CID-"

"Max," Morse's eyes rolled mightily, "It's just a question, not an accusation. I'm just sure you could have done anything you wanted."

"Not anything," Max finally moved away from the kitchen and into the living room area as Morse joined him, playing with the bow-tie he still carried between his fingers, "Could you really see me mopping up snotty noses in some country village or a clinic somewhere? Me? As a ruddy GP?"

Morse snorted at the mental image, "A regular Doc Martin."

"Hopefully a mite better looking," Max huffed gently.

"A mite," Morse gave a cheeky look.

"I'm content where I am. I never had any interest in more traditional medical roles," Max sipped his drink and avoided digging into the topic too fully. As much as his thoughts had flitted over what could have passed as a heart-to-heart between the two of them, this wasn't exactly what he had in mind. Perhaps that made him a hypocrite.

"Medicine is a family profession, surely?" Morse nodded to the portrait of the old man on the wall above the stairs, all bow-tie and glasses and judgmental frown. Of course he would have noticed. Max imagined that Morse handled most spaces he occupied with a Holmesian discernment, gleaning personal details from any available clue.

"My grandfather," Max had been named after him and had never quite figured out if that had been coincidence or providence. He remembered him fondly and no other family member's photo was as prominently displayed, "He was a police surgeon in the country. I spent a lot of time with him in the summers as a boy. My parents didn't know what to do with me and he was the odd relation I think. He was also the only doctor in the family."

His grandfather had never treated him differently and had always encouraged his interests as well as his penchant for strange questions. He taught him about the seasons and life cycles. About anatomy and rigor mortis and signs of trauma. They stomped about the countryside together and those days remained some of his fondest memories. He'd taught him to fish and about good meals and good music. He'd been the first person Max had told that he liked boys in a slip of the tongue, when he was too young to realize that people weren't always so accepting. He hadn't hushed him or shamed him but instead explained to Max to be careful and to protect himself, to guard his heart. He later wondered if maybe his grandfather actually understood more of that than he ever let on.

When the old man passed away his mother told him that his grandfather had gone to heaven and Max told her, as plainly as a child could, that was simply impossible because grandfather hadn't believed in it. He'd said that death was merely the body's functions ceasing to operate and while there certainly must have been such a thing as the soul, that God and Heaven were stories for people who lacked something fundamental inside of themselves that would get them through the day. It was all just to make them feel better about the prospect of disappearing from the grand cycle of life and breaking down into the earth like all the rest of the dirt. When Max had been cuffed for his 'cheek' he'd gleaned that grandfather must have been right. If you were wrong, adults were happy to correct you, if you were right they either yelled or hit you because they didn't know how to admit they were at a loss.

"Is this when I ask why the least likely policeman in Oxford is a policeman at all? Some family legacy of yours?" Turnabout's fair play, after all.

Morse actually snorted at that and shook his head, "No. My father's a taxi driver and my mother passed away when I was young. I don't..." His brow furrowed before he shrugged carelessly, "I don't actually know what my stepmother does. Something, I imagine."

This was the most Morse had said about his family besides referring to his mother once in the past tense. Max probably shouldn't probe given his own reluctance to share, but such meager crumbs of information wouldn't sustain his curiosity, "So how does one go from Classics at Oxford to Thames Valley Police then?"

"One leaves Oxford," Morse seemed immediately on the defensive and Max knew he'd found one of the man's many tender topics. Morse's lips twitched nearly into a sneer, "And eventually one needs a reliable decent paying job with a little more of a long term scope and very small chance they will turn you down. It was this or the military."

Max was sure he couldn't imagine this man in the army but it seemed bleak reasoning for a lifelong career. Last possible option? Surely he could have continued his degree as he'd mentioned before, and gone to another school at the very least. There must have been something that drove him away from his education so permanently.

"Ready for the sergeants then? Movin' on up?" Max could tell when Morse was tiring of questions about himself in the quirks of his face, the twitch in his cheek and curl of his lips, but he couldn't stop himself from asking.

"As much as I can be," Morse drank down the rest of his gin a bit quicker than was necessary and moved his empty glass to the sink. Max realized the other man was still holding his bow-tie, threading it between his fingers and wearing the edges repeatedly against his thumb in some nervous tic of a gesture. He moved beside Morse to stop him and threaded the ends of the tie through his own fingers and gave it a tug, "You'll wear a hole in it at that rate. I like this tie you know."

Morse released it, letting the fabric slip away and lifted his fingers instead to touch Max. His hand ghosted along the doctor's jaw with a need that was hard to interpret. They met in another kiss and Morse seemed desperate for it, earnest and full of desire but it also felt like a distraction from continuing any conversation that was too meaningful. As the usual rush of warmth spread through him and Max wondered when this particularly lovely feeling may stop. He didn't want it to and was fine replacing invasive conversation with more of _this_ , but Morse broke away and licked his lips in thought. Max knew the look, thinking and arguing with himself most likely.

" _Loafe with me on the grass . . . loose the stop from your throat. Not words, not music or rhyme I want . . . not custom or lecture, not even the best. Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice_ ," Morse murmured low and metered and Max recognized the Whitman immediately. He had, as promised, been brushing up. Poetry was a weakness and uttered by this particular man it was doubly so. His skin prickled and he felt tongue tied under those clear blue eyes.

"Go out with me sometime, Max," Morse murmured it softly, but he wasn't asking so much as telling and it didn't sound like the usual invitation to a drink at the pub. This was much more pointed punctuation to his poetry.

"What?" Not exactly Max's cleverest response. He'd heard him just fine.

"After my sergeant's. It's a few weeks away but… Go out with me. Drinks. Or that dinner I owe you?" Morse's fingers idly brushed an earlobe then down along Max's neck. It was very thoroughly distracting and he tilted his head to the touch.

Now, in his impulsive plan to bring Morse over here and have his way with him, something Max now realized was an idiotic attempt to kill his desire for emotional connection with a physical one, he had not counted on Morse's own will at all. The concept of real talking, of real attempts at something more between them, seemed like ancient and far off plans. He had settled on the idea of enjoying one another in the ways they had in the past, for them to seek comfort while it lasted. But the invitation for what could only sound like a date unexpectedly roused that snappy bitter thing inside him from earlier in the day. He remembered that crawling feeling under his skin from the pub, that image of a faceless woman with Morse all over her, that flash of feeling that he'd thought he had been beyond. Logical mental compartmentalizing hadn't weeded it out of him, it had merely rested and waited for a nicer moment to ruin instead. Max couldn't stop the words from drawling out of him with a nasal displeasure, "Don't you have some girl you'd rather take out?"

"What?" Morse looked genuinely taken aback. His pale brows drew tight and lines of concern crinkled around his eyes, "No. Why would you have that idea?"

Max felt immediately foolish and could feel his ears flush red in annoyance. He was used to expressing his irritation and disappointment openly but such a personal point of pettiness was below him. He tried to back away with an exasperated exhale and the  usual bluster, "It doesn't matter Morse," He attempted to be stern when he stared at him over his glasses, "I just don't do _dates_."

"It does matter, _actually_ ," Morse huffed. His intimate whispers were gone and he looked like he was puffing up for an indignant speech of which he would be completely justified, but the doctor interrupted him in an attempt to spare himself.

"What I meant," Max said firmly, "was that I'm sure there's anyone else you'd rather take out. This.." He pressed a hand to Morse's sternum and felt his pulse beating powerfully and enticingly under his palm, "arrangement works well enough as long as it lasts. As long as you're interested. You don't have to feel obligated to make it more than it is."

As soon as he said it he knew it was a lie. If there had been any doubt to his own feelings, there wasn't anymore. None of this was part of the plan. Except there had been no plan. Max had no rehearsed speech and knew immediately that he was only saying what the thought Morse wanted to hear. This was about Max trying to not be green in the gills over some chippy he would never see or even meet and was nothing more than office hearsay. This was him not hoping for more than he could also give in return. He was _afraid_ and he was pushing the responsibility and continuity of whatever this was between them onto Morse. It would live or die with him alone.

It was easier to live under a ruse of detachment. It was easier than hoping.

Morse looked strangely wounded and that also caught the doctor by surprise. The kicked expression on the other man's face was a fierce blow against his determination but Morse wouldn't let Max move away. Every step back was met with one forward until he was edged against the counter and his collar was being fingered lightly by the other man, "It's not an obligation. There isn't anyone else I want to take out and I still owe you dinner."

"I don't like to over complicate-"

Morse barked an exasperated laugh, "We both know that's a lie. It's just a bloody meal, Max! Two blokes can have dinner can't they? We see each other almost every day. We go out all the time!"

"Alright!" Max wasn't sure why he was being so contrary in light of the last few weeks. Morse wasn't wrong. They had drinks and meals all the time, in groups generally, and it was hardly a taboo these days for the police and hospital to mix or for two men to have a bite together. Max was the one who invited him by in the first place. He was the one worrying over the man and keeping him company when he needed sleep. He was also the one with jealous little pangs and snide commentary. Denial wasn't working so well any more.

Morse looked satisfied with that and leaned for another quick kiss that eased Max's tension even if it didn't fix his doubts or concerns. A pair of long fingers plucked his collar buttons open and tickled his suprasternal notch with decadent touches. His neck was always a sensitive spot and Morse had learned it expertly. Another button popped when the kiss broke into smaller, slower, playful ones, "Can I," kiss "stay," kiss "tonight?"

"That was the idea," Max admitted. Morse's pleased mood was a bit contagious. It seemed that in the same way he projected his misery or ennui, he also could project his lighter side. When he smiled he practically lit the room. Max shoved him back playfully with the hand over his heart and smirked, "Which means you can slow down, Speed Racer. It's not late and I'm not ready for bed yet."

Morse took the shove with a chuckle and a step back, "Oh good. That means I can rummage through your books."

Max shook his head and tidied the remaining drink glasses.

"What do you call that room up there?"

"My study," Max adjusted his glasses as he turned off the kitchen light.

"That's not a study," Morse had moved to click off a lamp in the living room and was already hovering at the base of the stairs, "Nobody has a study anymore."

"I have a study," Max insisted as he began to bully Morse to go up.

"Oh," The detective paused with a momentary dawning after a few steps, "That reminds me. You and I need to have a conversation about tenors."

Max groaned and gave the policeman's arse a whack up the steps, "My Lord. Move along, Morse."

As promised, they argued Domingo vs. Pavarotti while Max plugged away on his laptop doing 'homework' and Morse wandered the study going through its many crowded shelves. He unearthed a medical journal with an article that Max had written, unaware that the doctor may have career pursuits outside of the morgue and labs. He also found an article from the Oxford Mail, folded, and tucked under a week old teacup on the coffee table. It was about Oxford's own singing policeman and Morse didn't seem pleased to see it so Max was more than glad to capitalize on that by taking the piss out of him.

By the time the doctor was finished his work and Morse had picked a book to read, they'd settled in on the sofa in a suspiciously convincing image of domesticity. Max continued to wonder at the mercurial personality shifts of this man who was all tricky angles and biting edges out among the masses. In a crowded room, Morse barely seemed comfortable in his own skin but here, just the two of them, he was a soft, warm thing that begged to be held and kissed and taken care of. Morse had tucked his legs up and pressed his back against Max's side so he could sink down into the crook of the arm that curled around his shoulders. Max's hand had slipped under Morse's shirt collar to splay and idly stroke the warm skin of his chest and when it finally stilled, his palm settled over the reassuring thud of his heartbeat.

"Do you have work tomorrow?" Morse held his place in the book with his finger and turned his head to look at the doctor.

"Sunday is a day of rest, Morse, so barring a homicide.."

Morse made a displeased face at the ever casual mention of murder and it turned unto a yawn, "Good. We can sleep in."

Max yawned back in response, settled his head back, and closed his eyes with a grunt of agreement. He could feel Morse tugging an old blanket up around them and thoughts of quick shags and possessive jealousy were simply gone.

He'd met Morse when Fall had been closing in, a time when things died and withered, when life settled to rest and awaited a new and fresh return. Morse wasn't like normal things or normal people and despite being surrounded by death, had a strange knack for bringing things back to life where Max was concerned. This friendship of theirs had slowly built and grown and changed. With Winter now biting at their heels and a chill in the air that encouraged settling, resting, and hibernating the way through the long months, Max wondered what new angle the young detective would bring to that.

To this.

Whatever this was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I encourage anyone who hasn't, to watch the Inspector Morse interpretation of Max to do so. If you don't like the old episodes, there is at least one compilation video of his scenes on youtube or vimio somewhere. He has a sass, confidence and gravitas as an old man that I think is really valuable in watching/reading/writing him! It's a big influence for me in his character.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conclusion?

Max Debryn was never a vivid dreamer and though scientifically he knew that most people did dream he couldn't for life of him ever remember his own, so when the blank restfulness of sleep began to ebb and flow, his awareness coming in and out like the tide, he knew that the firm angles and lean limbs tucked against and wrapped around him were very real. An aquiline nose pressed into his hairline, there was a soft even puff breath against his shoulder and angled boney knees fit in behind his own. Max's physical awareness came back to him with slow, searching contact. He brushed along the arm that held him, smoothed over a downy forearm and wrist, and found a thin hand which curled around his fingers when they came to rest.

Behind him Morse stirred and rubbed his nose against the doctor's skin before stilling once more but it was clear that he was waking little by little. His fingers twitched against Max's belly and squeezed the hand they held before he took a deeper, louder inhale that was a certain sign of consciousness. Max hadn't meant to disturb him and the dim light through the curtains suggested that there was still plenty of time for a kip, but Morse's arm tightened in a gentle hug and it was obvious he'd just realized where he was.

Falling asleep on the sofa the night before hadn't been their most genius idea and hadn't been a part of Max's original agenda, but they'd both been rather comfortable tucked under a blanket as an evening chill descended on the house. Morse had been reading and Max had closed his eyes for only a moment while the telly droned softly away at a low volume. It had gotten cool enough to trigger the heating and as it had clunked on, Morse had jolted awake with a twitch and the pair of them had made their way to bed too groggy and stiff to sacrifice more than a second of comfort as they fell in and huddled close under the duvet without a second thought.

Lips on his neck brought Max back to his faculties. He hadn't the self control at this hour to stop the shiver that ran down his spine and it must have been obvious because he felt Morse smile against the skin. The thinner man's fingers scratched lightly across his stomach and Max grumbled with significant gravel when he finally shifted and took a deep enervating breath, "Morse."

"G'morning.." Morse's voice was low and thick with sleep and his arm curled up diagonally across Max's chest so he could press his face warmly into the doctor's back and squeeze him.

"Not this early, it's not," Max grumbled even as the little affections and that particular tone of voice did bad things to his insides. It brought all the hibernating bits of him to life, "I thought you wanted a lie in."

"Could still do," Morse breathed against his neck before his lips ghosted lightly over the skin, sending a ripple through the doctor once more. All of the previous evening's intentions were catching up with him and Max turned his head to meet the very snuggly detective in a slow morning kiss. Morse's mouth teased against his own and a tongue darted across his lips playfully before they locked together in a fuller embrace. Max's lip was tugged between Morse's teeth before he was let go and the doctor hummed pleasantly to find that this particular interest was mutual.

Morse shifted against his back and Max became more acutely aware of the man's growing arousal. They were both warm and sluggish, loathe to separate from their comfortable positions and still not fully awake, so instead of more talking they let their bodies take control. Max's hips tilted back against the heat and Morse sighed as his hardness moved against the cleft of the doctor's arse.

Max's eyes closed and his mind wandered as he felt Morse writhe against him and press open-mouthed kisses against his skin. Each was like a flutter of life to his sleeping body and brought back the feel of the other man under his hands on that first night. He'd delighted in pushing him down onto the mattress and exploring him. He remembered Morse's impatient demands, his wiry body and his breathy cries. He'd been rather good in his day-to-day not to dwell on it much, not when they had to work together, but it all came back in a heady rush and Max was reminded just how much he still wanted the other man.

Debryn shifted back against those rolling hips again and felt Morse's hardness already eager and sticky against his skin. Detached as he was, the doctor was in danger of being swept up in the filthy imaginings of where this may take them, even if it led nowhere but here, to them pressed tight and with Morse hot in his ear and taking him, slow and lazy, from behind. There were certainly worse ways to wake up. Again Max revisited thoughts of Morse's whines, his impatience, the taste of him on his own lips as he had teased and swallowed him down. He remembered his own abandon as he rode the other man to both their ends…

Max's thoughts were interrupted by Morse's hand ghosting down his body and wrapping around his aching length.

"You barely let me touch you the last time," The voice was husky against Max's ear as Morse rocked himself once more against him.

"I don't recall you minding much," Max tilted his face but stopped when he felt his earlobe pinched between teeth. A shiver went from head to toe once again and was only escalated by Morse squeezing him before he started to stroke, firm and slow.

"Besides, I didn't know you," The doctor explained weakly as he sighed to the touch, "and you weren't the most forthcoming..."

"Forth _coming_? Oh come on, Max, really..." Morse laughed soft into his ear again and Max groaned, not in pleasure, but at the poor pun.

"Any more jokes and there won't be anyone com- _ungh_ ," Morse's hand tightened around him and Max smothered the next sound behind closed lips. A thumb pressed against his leaking tip and he shuddered as the moisture was used with a clever swipe to resume stroking him. Talk was abandoned again in favor of movement and touch, breath and skin and heat. They lay intertwined and writhing, so intimate and close that Max found it hard to tell where Morse and he began and ended. It was hard to tell that he was truly awake at all. There was a dreamlike quality in the sound of only their huffs and moans, the slow build of pleasure, the way they were gripping and squeezing and moving in tandem. His mind drifted to a place of nothing but feeling, paced to the thrum of his pulse and fueling the growing fire at his core. He could have stayed lost in a such a place for eternity. No thought, only feeling. Only them.

"Max," Morse finally gasped into the doctor's ear with a twist of his wrist that made Max gasp himself. Morse's cock now rocked into the soft seam of the doctor's thighs, measured but insistent, and he matched the slow thrusts with his hand. The doctor clenched to make the man stutter, "Max _-ah-ah-_ I want you."

Max hummed a small chuckle considering the position they were in but he circled an arm behind himself, around Morse's slim waist, and he pulled him tighter. In this very moment he was never more sure of his reply, "You have me, in case you hadn't noticed."

Morse shook his head a bit and there was a returned laugh against Max's shoulder, along with a kiss. It spun the doctor's insides in a totally different way, "I mean, I want you," Morse broke fully away, releasing the doctor completely and rolling him flat onto his back. They met eyes, "to _have_ me."

"Ah-" As clumsy as Morse had said it, a greedy hunger crawled through Max. The doctor propped himself up on his elbows and took an admiring look at the other, sleep tousled and with a blush going from scalp to chest. His stumbling proposal only seemed more earnest with those distractingly blue eyes and the sensual curve of his arousal obvious under the thin sheet. Max couldn't help but pull him into a very sudden and heated kiss. He would have devoured him if he could but instead broke with a breathy agreement and enjoyed the look of that kiss-reddened mouth, slack and dazed, as he rubbed his hand across the stubbled jaw and brushed Morse's bottom lip with his thumb, "If that's what you want."

Morse turned his face to kiss Max's palm, "I do. Very much," then he nipped his fingers in quick succession, "You're very good with your hands."

Max's brows rose at the praise, "Am I then?"

Morse hid his expression by dropping back into the pillows and Max took the opportunity to push him flat on his back and flick away of the remainder of the covers. Morse always had a startled amusement whenever the doctor asserted himself physically and it was worth it to see that saucer-eyed awe each and every time. Given free reign, this man was worth enjoying, worth savoring, worth touching and learning and now that he had him again he didn't want to waste it. Existing in this bubble of time meant not having to think about anything else or what it meant and it would take a much more foolish man than Max Debryn to look a gift horse in the mouth.

He kissed Morse again and teased a finger in a slow drag down his length and further to palm his bollocks. The response was as eager as he could have hoped and Max only pulled away, with reluctance, to fetch some necessities from the bedside drawer.

Morse was all hands when he leaned too far off and Max tutted and brushed him back, "Still lacking in patience, Morse. 'He that can have patience can have what he will'."

"I'd applaud myself on my patience, actually," Morse piped, "I've been biding my time rather well."

"Oh, have you?" Max chuckled.

"I wanted to come back here the minute I left," Morse murmured softly, leaning up and bumping noses in an affectionate nuzzle. It was a clever attempt to steal the doctor's attention back but Max only allowed a single kiss before he pushed him gently back down again.

Max for all his stern bluster hadn't quite expected that sentiment and was sure that for a moment the surprise must have showed on his face. Had Morse been thinking about him all this time? Had he been _lusted_ after? It was certainly flattering but even more than that, unbelievable. He'd never been the type that people looked at, pursued or even approached.

_Who was this man?_

Riding on a fresh wave of confidence, Max's hand slid down Morse's body. He ran his fingers from clavicle to sternum, over the firm rise of his chest and down in a gentle caress over each individual rib. His hand spread warmly across the plane of Morse's abdomen, scratched over the curves of lean muscle and tickled the softer flesh of his waist until Morse writhed in place with an indignant laugh. Max finally found the knife scar, still vivid and pink even after being well and fully healed. It was strange to know he had some hand in its existence and there was swell of possessive pride at what a good job he'd actually done on the stitch work. It was Morse's turn to shiver, his belly bobbing with breath and Max couldn't help but find the soft trembling skin too inviting not to lean in to nip and then kiss.

The human body was not perfect but in its flaws the doctor saw a different sort of perfection. In genetics there was miraculous circumstance and in anatomy there was balance and symmetry - art. An unfathomable chain of events led to the creation of the lovely man with him now, and to his own existence as well, and this improbable timeline led them to be here, together. It was science, it was the binding theories of the universe given form and practice, and it was his truth. There was no sin such moments, the only sin would be not appreciating them.

His fingers danced lightly around the ruddy curve of Morse's cock and the other man's hips rose a hairsbreadth from the mattress. Max chided, "You've got sex on the brain."

Morse licked his lips, "I don't seem to be able to shake it off."

Max eased Morse's legs apart with feathery strokes and enjoyed watching him tremble. He parted his thighs and gave them each a brief squeeze. When Morse was spread enough he lubed his fingers, kissed him and dipped his hands towards the prize. His slick fingers stroked across the man's perineum before brushing over his taut entrance. Morse shuddered and instead of gripping into the bedding, his hands flew to Max, desperate for more contact. His eyes were dark when the kiss broke and one hand had buried into the doctor's hair to keep him close. Max dare not pull away and kept Morse pinned with his eyes as he spoke gently, "If anything hurts or there is any discomfort, you tell me."

Morse huffed wryly and shifted his hips against Max's hand, "I've done this before, _doctor_."

Debryn frowned at that, not wanting to think much about what sort the other usually got on with, "And if no one has ever said that before, they've done you a great disservice."

Morse flushed and had no reply. He turned his face into the crook of Max's neck and the doctor took it as the final permission to press a single slick digit slowly inside. He was careful and professional and Morse breathed small, wondering sounds when he was finally deep enough to move and stretch. Max watched his every expression as his head fell back, his fluttering eyes, the quirks of his lips, and the way his tongue darted out desperately to wet them between breaths. He watched the strain of Morse's lean muscles as he tried not to writhe or press back and admired the lavender trails of his veins rising under the pale skin as his hands clenched and a second finger joined the first.

Morse gasped when they scissored and hit just the right angle to make him shudder and twitch. His eyes locked onto Max and he flushed anew to find himself once more being unabashedly admired. His freckles stood out like constellations across his skin and the doctor found that he wanted to taste every single one.

"Is it true what you said the last time?" Morse swallowed as he held himself together on a razors edge but his body was looser and accommodating and Max was finding his own patience wearing thin against the temptation of more.

"What did I say?"

"You said I was the- _Ah.._ " Morse exhaled with a sound of mild disappointment as the fingers pressed and stretched one more time before withdrawing.

One day Max would like to take him apart with only his hands but today the other man had asked for this and so the doctor moved to settle between Morse's legs. He dragged his cock along the seam of Morse's waiting body, a slow teasing brush that made them both exhale audibly, but Max was impatient. He lined up, slick and ready, and pressed himself slowly into the tight heat as Morse let out a low, sputtered, _'O-ohh'_.

It had been a long time since Max had been on this side of things. He'd forgotten how intense the connection could be and had to close his eyes to keep from being overwhelmed by the rush of molten heat. Morse's nails bit into him as he pressed in halfway, withdrew, and thrust again. Only when he was fully buried inside with his breath stolen, did Max open his eyes to admire Morse there below him, spread and panting and perfect and his.

He leaned forward for a kiss, to claim those cupid's bow lips one more time, to feel their bodies shift together, and to taste Morse moan his name against his mouth.

" _I said you were the loveliest thing I ever touched_ ," Max whispered.

" _Yes,_ " Morse's eyes cracked, dark and hungry and needing to see Max say it as much as he needed hear it.

Max found, rather unexpectedly, that he couldn't just say it.

_Yes, I meant it._

Fear of the unknown kept him from saying anything so honest.

_Yes you are a piece of art. Yes, if it were a perfect world we could stay in this bed forever. Yes, you are selfish and careless and foolhardy. You are bad for me but you are beautiful._

It was too close to real truth and Max felt a heavy swell of emotion and a clench of panic in the heart of him. It was inconvenient timing and Morse looked hungry for validation but he was too terrified that it would all just go wrong.

" _Ask me no more for fear I should reply,"_ Max murmured, an admission in it's own way but it was always easier to use someone else's words than to trust his own. Morse's eyes closed and he got a smile for it.

Max began to move, to push them away from talking into something more immediately satisfying. He had to learn the other's body just as much as Morse needed to adjust to the feeling of being filled and so the pace was slow and safe to start. With each shift of hips he felt Morse relax more underneath him and long fingers crawled over Max's skin, holding him for leverage when he began to move back against each thrust and match the pace as best he could. Morse's body rolled into each movement and he kept Max held close, bodies flush for more friction. They remained this close as the speed and intensity grew and neither man attempted even once to change position. Max needed to see Morse's soft breathing turn labored, to feel him arch and press, to see his red-gold halo spread wildly against the pillow. He needed confirmation that the fire in his veins was mutual, that as their pace quickened and they hurtled to the edge with one another, that Morse felt just as he did. He needed to feel their hearts hammering against each other in their chests and he wanted more than anything to see Morse fall apart around him.

Max began to hear his name peppered in among breathy pleas of _'Ah'_ and _'Yes'_ and _'More'_ and Morse's strong limbs hooked and locked around him as their pleasure built beyond controllable thought. He felt his name rumbled under his lips when he dragged them over that fine neck and in his ear when the other man clung and scratched delicious stinging lines across his back. Each thrust of hips into that tight heat sparked through him, each push of his body that sent Morse gasping also pulled just as many inarticulate sounds from himself. Max caught Morse's fingers with his own and tangled them together as he pressed them into the mattress on either side of his head. Morse was trembling, lifting his hips in a desperate attempt to touch more and faster and soon he could feel the man's cock twitch in warning against him. Morse's entire body tightened, he shuddered and tensed, and finally with a muffled cry he came hot and hard between them. Even if Max wanted to continue, the pressure and vice like grip of Morse's body was too much. He pulled out with a groan just moments before his orgasm rolled through him and Max spilled into his own hand and across the other's spattered belly.

The dreamlike feeling set in more intensely than before when he relaxed, breathing hard, on top of the other man. It seemed important to stay close, to be connected and grounded as long as possible, and only when Max began to feel like he may crush Morse, did he slide away to lay beside him. He drifted through a detached twilight of comfort and satisfaction and the only real awareness was in each warm spot of contact where they touched and in the tangle of their hands together. He opened his eyes when he felt movement and Morse was sitting up and wiping them both clean. Max didn't even mind that he was using the corner of the bed sheet, not when the other looked sated and tousled and as pleased as the cat who had got the cream.

When his eyes opened again they were back under the covers and his arm was curled around Morse, petting the silky skin of his tailbone and enjoying each gentle bump of his vertebrae. It didn't dawn on Max that they both had fallen asleep again until he was waking up one final time to the sound of a phone vibrating against the table. He stretched for his own mobile on instinct but found it unplugged and unmoving.

As Max fumbled for his charger he grumbled, "Morse, it's yours.."

It buzzed again and the sandy head barely shifted out from under the duvet to rub furiously at his eyes. The detective finally rolled for his own phone and brought it up above his face, squinting hard at the glow in the dim light.

Max plucked up his glasses, blearily cleared his alerts, and set everything back down so he could eke out a few more moments of rest. Somehow being here in the light of day, another morning-after, felt unexpectedly awkward and the doctor was a at a bit of a loss on how he was supposed to proceed. The softer things weren't exactly his forte. It was foolish, considering how things had been gone, but he waited until Morse was finished furiously tapping out a text with a fierce brow furrow before he even attempted to speak.

"Work?"

Morse grunted, "No. My sister."

Oh, no murder then. His interest was piqued, "Everything alright?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary," Morse said noncommittally and after another stare at the phone, waiting for a response that never came, he yawned and put his phone back to the side. When he finally rolled to look at Max, his face half obscured by the bedding and his messy hair, the doctor was surprised to find Morse looking a bit concerned and tad reticent.

The last time they could ignore much talking afterwards in lieu of sleep and Max had made sure he'd been up before the other had stirred in the morning, but the last time he was the venerable host and Morse had been a stranger. There had been a surety in the expectation that the other man wouldn't stick around. They were so far removed from such anonymity now that Max didn't feel nearly as in control. Those sad, hooded eyes watching him were capable of inciting the strangest desires in him, yet in this uneasy moment Max felt like he was on uneven footing and anxiety gnawed lightly at his insides.

The doctor summoned his armor, his best attempt at security, and adjusted his glasses. He stretched himself with a roll of the neck and finally met Morse's eyes with his usual droll expression, "You don't have to look so disappointed."

Morse blinked a bit in surprise and pulled the cover down below his chin to squint a challenge at the sentiment, "Are you always so charming in the morning?"

"Do you always look so upset after a shag and a sleep?" Max didn't mince words.

"I just woke up, _bloody christ_ ," Morse rubbed his hand over his face before he edged closer and reached out under the blankets instinctively. As soon as his fingers touched skin, the man pulled close. Max felt the fingers run up his forearm before they curled around his elbow and held. Morse had found his tattoo by touch alone and now idly ran his fingers over it. Whatever effort at peace was being made here, it did relax and soothe him.

"You weren't this ornery the last time," Morse yawned again and leaned his cheek against Max's shoulder, "I actually thought you were rather... cute."

The doctor had no response to that besides a feeling bit warm and even further confused. Never in his life had he been called cute.

Thankfully, Morse didn't seem to expect an answer. He went quiet and when he did speak again it was soft, like that expression he still sported, as well as a bit sad, "I've been thinking."

"You? Nooo.." Max drawled.

"You said you didn't know me before. That I wasn't forthcoming," Morse squeezed his arm.

When Max tilted his head to look he found the man's forehead pressed to his shoulder, his eyes staring at skin and nowhere else. He looked shy and distant, concerned, and it was a far cry from the Morse he'd had for the evening or even the Morse he was used to everyday, "Jokes aside. You weren't wrong."

"Haven't you learned I'm never wrong, Morse?" Max's dry humor resounded with bluster even when he didn't try and he made a concerted effort to soften his voice before continuing, "I can't afford to be wrong."

It was more than just work. It was life. Max couldn't suffer himself if a wrong turn cut him to the core. He carried enough old wounds that there was no space for more. Morse had already peeled away careful layers of protection that he'd kept up for years without even trying, to bare too much and to be punished for it would be his grandest mistake.

"It's Endeavour," it was barely above a whisper, a secret, "My given name."

Max looked at him again and this time Morse was meeting his eyes. He looked so reluctant and uncomfortable that it was almost childlike. Morse looked like he expected to be admonished or teased, like he expected Max to laugh at him - him of all people - or go spread it about like a vicious rumor. The doctor didn't quite know what to say, for he was sure he was being taken into a circle of confidence that was rather small.

"It suits you better than Pagan," He actually liked Endeavour quite a bit but didn't think that would matter much. He'd been _Just Morse_ for so long that it was impossible to think of him as anything else.

"It's still awful," Morse exhaled a small laugh of relief as the danger of judgement seemed to pass.

"Last year we had a girl come through the morgue. K-V-I-I-I-L-Y-N. Kaitlyn," he smirked and glanced again, relieved to see Morse's features distorting into a familiar twist of disgust, "So it could be worse."

"My parents weren't idiots," Morse huffed with a small shake of his head. He readjusted to rest his head back down against Max, "Just a Quaker and a Captain Cook fan boy."

The doctor shifted to accommodate Morse using him as a pillow and shrugged his other shoulder, " _'A word, a glance, a sigh of trust may achieve more than a lifetime of exhausting endeavour'_."

Max was surprised to find that it earned him a kiss. His discomfort and anxiety with the morning melted away a little bit more. The detective came to hover lightly over him, warm from sleep and now pink from his unexpected confession. He was making it hard for Max to keep up the cranky guise of normality when he looked so soft and comfortable.

"What was that for?"

"So you don't change your mind and toss me out," Morse turned to sink back into the bed, this time shifting Max's arm so he could fit into the crook of it.

"Anymore of this self-sorry nonsense and I will. Or your kicked puppy looks," Max huffed and closed his eyes again. They didn't seem to be going anywhere.

"There's something else," Morse was staring at the ceiling though one of his arms had stretched to rest a hand against Max's thigh and idly run over the skin.

"Isn't it a bit early to be so confessional?" Max complained and turned his head to speak into the mussed whorls of Morse's hair. He smelled lovely and it threatened to lull him back to sleep, "I can't absolve you of anything, you know."

"Maybe you can," Morse replied, "That girl. There was one on this past case, but I suppose you already knew that."

Max felt a chilly pang but nothing as offensive as his previous jealousy. It felt like an echo, a remnant, and that was infinitely more manageable.

"It's certainly nothing to do with me," Max tried to be casual but sounded dismissive. The truth was that now Morse was here, the previous envy felt foolish. It had burned out of him completely.

"You seemed to care earlier," Morse propped his head on his hand and watched Max closely. His hand rested over the Vitruvian Man on the doctor's chest.

"And I shouldn't have said anything," Max's eyes cut to him, "It was none of my business."

"She was up with me. Wanted to have a drink and turned out she'd been holding a bit of a torch since school," Morse sounded strange, tentative and contemplative, "I think she used me to get something out of her system."

Max remembered what Jakes had said about Thursday and playing the angle, "And did you use her?"

Morse hadn't seemed to expect that and seemed reluctant to admit anything. It may have been the first time he hadn't been allowed to feel like the victim, "In a way…"

"Then everyone got what they wanted. The _ends_ ," Max opened his eyes wider and his brows lifted nearly to his hairline, "justified the means."

Morse made a face.

"You've got a bit of a reputation now," the doctor continued, "with Strange and Jakes."

Morse flashed Max a different disgusted expression. How many did he have? He could practically catalogue them at this point. It was unclear if he was upset by the implication of gossip or the assumptions about his love life.

"You're apparently quite the playboy," Max laughed finally, mostly at the look he was being given, and that was all it took for any remaining tension to leave him. He pinched the closest bit of bare skin on the other man, "I'm not sure I can disagree with them."

"Sod off, Max," Morse writhed away from the pinch and caught the doctor's hand in his own before he stilled. He lay back again, this time lifting the hand to look at, turn over, and then finally release when Max decided that maybe it was time to get up. With most of his own awkwardness bled away, he could probably face a morning with Morse in good company.

"Where're you going?" Morse frowned, hands still seeking the other's warm skin as he shifted out from under the blankets.

"Loo, if you must know. A shower can wait, breakfast can't," Max scratched a hand through his hair and then across his chest as the chilly morning air prickled over his skin. He wandered to the dresser for clothes to throw on, "Do you need something to wear?"

Morse rolled to his stomach, rested his head on his arms and watched Max leave the bed, "If you don't mind. What's breakfast then?"

"Avocado toast and mimosas," Max said dryly and it was clear Morse couldn't tell if it was a joke or not. Max smirked with a purse of lips and tossed a loose pair of pants and a plain shirt at him, "It's not the bloody Handle Bar, Morse. Toast, eggs, meat, a full English if you want it. Anything to stick to those ribs of yours."

Max was pulling on a pair of plaid lounge pants when he murmured to himself mostly, "I could probably manage the mimosas, actually. Bloody Mary's at the very least. But we both should have some water..."

"And you have coffee."

"Yes, I have coffee. Your genius detective skills never fail to impress," Max quipped as he pulled a shirt over his head. His glasses from the night before were swapped for his lighter, more casual pair and Max gave his hair a cursory glance and ruffle in the mirror. It was mostly smashed to one side from sleeping but he'd survive until he could get a proper rinse off. The doctor moved to the door and only glanced back once before he left the room. Morse was still in the bed on his stomach, his freckled back bared and finely curved as he roughly scratched his hands through messy waves of hair. He seemed to sense he was being watched and turned to Max with a silent question in his eyes.

Max shook his head. He had nothing to contribute and for once was speechless, but warmth shot through him like an injection. His room looked a bit of a mess, two pairs of discarded shoes, two loosely tossed pairs of trousers and shorts, braces on the floor and shirts in a pile. Morse was lounging and sated and he looked more like he belonged swathed in tastefully draped fabric than he ever did in poorly sized suits tromping about at crime scenes. Perhaps he'd been born in the wrong era, meant to be some artist's muse or to have been born as an idle aristocrat, free to enjoy his opera and his poetry, and only needing his wit and intelligence to feed his own ego at the expense of others who continually failed to live up to his lofty expectations.

In a shallow self deprecating way, Max wasn't sure a man like him was worthy to touch such a timeless creature, but then reality crept in and Morse's acerbic commentary and rolling eyes reminded him just who he was dealing with. Still, seeing him here, comfortable and languid in Max's own bed felt like a privilege. His own feelings and Morse's were no more clear than the night before, the relationship possibly more muddled than ever, but he did at the very least have a breakfast to look forward to, maybe even a shower together, and one dinner on the horizon and that was more than he'd had yesterday.

 

 

E p i l o g u e

 

 

Weeks weren't as long these days as they used to be. The year hurtled towards its end and Morse towards his sergeant's exam and the city of Oxford remained as predictably crime ridden as ever. Even if the number of hot blooded crimes dropped, Max still dealt with a wealth of bodies. At this time of year it was mostly, and sadly, those who didn't deal well with cold and loneliness. Life was much the same as always with the minor addition of an occasional visit from a particular constable who was looking for a quiet place to study. Despite their unspoken agreement of something between them, Morse seemed to grow distant even as he felt closer, but Max had attributed it to the upcoming holidays - seasonal depression wasn't so odd and no one was immune. Morse seemed to always be fielding messages from his sister these days but was ever reluctant to talk about them. Whenever anyone asked, when Morse's brow would furrow darkly and his lips droop and curl in upset, he would shut down the line of questioning as quickly as it started. It had become known to everyone around him to simply not ask at all.

A case was the perfect distraction and the puzzler of a don's death, allegedly hit by a car despite evidence to the contrary, had soon led to other bodies and Max had been doing this too long to think a pile up of corpses all at the same time was merely coincidence. Thankfully the why and how of circumstances wasn't his department. It wasn't strange for Morse to become engulfed in a case and it was less odd for his frustrations to catch and spread through CID like wildfire but there was something else going on, something with Thursday and his family that no one was talking much about.

"Doctor," Max was rather absorbed in stomach content analysis when he was interrupted in the lab, "Your phone."

"I'm clearly in the middle of something. Can't it wait?" Max gestured in front of him but the tech bobbled on their heels in the doorway.

"DC Strange. He says it's an emergency," The phone was held out and Max nodded expectantly until the tech put it to his ear and he could hold it with his shoulder. He wasn't going to stop working on account of Strange. The police were always a bit generous with the term 'emergency'.

"Debryn."

"Doc-" Strange was breathless and Max paused. His tone made ice run through the doctor's veins, "It's a shooting. Three down and we need you. It's Morse."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of the first chunk of the story!! Thank you for getting this far with me.
> 
> There is more to come but I figured the first season was a good enough place to wrap up this branch of everything. Perhaps typical, but it really paces itself well. I've shifted the timeline of the first season to end before the holidays instead of after. 
> 
> There is a alot more plotted. 
> 
> You may notice the name of the fic changed. I decided to use Delicious Burdens as the name of the whole series so each individual part will be named something else. I hope no one is too thrown by it.


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